


Chase The Devil

by catholicschoolgirl



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Grief/Mourning, Historical Inaccuracy, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Jealousy, M/M, Mind Games, Minor Character Death, Misogyny, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Power Imbalance, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 16:18:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 228,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1905615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catholicschoolgirl/pseuds/catholicschoolgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows that court is a chess match. And neither Zayn nor Harry have any intention of losing.</p><p>Inspired by <a href="http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/post/90913349306/so-like-theyre-princes-of-warring-kingdoms-that-are">an anonymous prompt on Tumblr</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to the anon who prompted this fic. It's kind of my own interpretation of Game of Thrones (although fair warning that I've never read nor watched Game of Thrones, haha). 
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my betas Fee and Emily. 
> 
> Thanks, also, to Rue for encouraging me to finally post this (the prologue has been done since May, eek). I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Title from Emeli Sande's Next To Me!

It should've been raining.

For some reason, that was the only thought pounding through Harry's head – that it shouldn't be beautiful outside, blue skies and soft breezes that tickled Harry's curls, mild and pleasant, the only sounds over the chirping of birds being the plod of weary horses and the steady trudge of his carriage. For such a horrible day, for a moment so miserable – it should've been raining. Maybe it would start to rain once they reached the sea. Maybe the winds would blow and the ship would capsize and Harry would drown without ever stepping foot on the cursed land of his _betrothed_. Perhaps then his step-father would realize his grave error, would realize that he couldn't just _sell_ a son to settle a quarrel everyone had forgotten the origins of.

People always used to look at Harry and remark on his charm, his smile. The Prince with a golden laugh, the carefree King-to-be. But Harry couldn't even remember the last time the mere hint of a grin chased his lips, couldn't remember the last time he had banished his friends and servants away from his chambers and not poured himself under the sheets to cry, wracking sobs that heaved through his body until he was simply too exhausted to do anything more than collapse into sleep.

This simply wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to marry a girl with straw-colored hair and rule over his kingdom for decades. Certainly, Harry did not love the girl he had been promised to as an infant – Harry wasn't sure he was capable of loving anyone specifically, not when there were so many beautiful men and women to keep his mind occupied in otherwise quiet moments. But he had been groomed to care about her, at least, had been groomed to take her hand from the moment of his birth, had told himself that he would one day rule with her at his side.

And now –

Harry thudded his head against the skeleton of the carriage but told himself that he couldn't even _think_ about crying. He wasn't alone, for one. Across from Harry in the carriage was Niall Horan, the fair-haired son of one of the most important Dukes in the kingdom. Fortunately for Harry, Niall had sworn himself to Harry's service as a youth, and so it was no large burden for Niall to leave his own family behind to follow Harry across the sea. To Harry's right was Liam Payne, one of the fiercest Knights in the kingdom, Harry's personal bodyguard, and Harry's only other confidante during this great moment of emotional turmoil. Liam may have appeared as approachable as a newly-birthed beagle, but Harry had seen Liam cut down a man on the battlefield with a single slice of his sword – he was not one to be tested.

The last man in the carriage though – he was the one Harry did not want to cry in front of. Louis Tomlinson, his step-father had said he was called, when they were briefly introduced before Harry and all of his things were shuttled away. Apparently Tomlinson was his betrothed's closest friend, and the one tasked with guaranteeing that Harry arrived safely and comfortably. Windswept brown hair, shrewd blue eyes, steadily jotting away on a piece of parchment, even as the carriage rattled along. Harry knew what Tomlinson's true job was, and it wasn't just to make sure Harry alighted in one piece. It was to keep tabs on him, to learn what made him tick, to ascertain whether Harry was a threat. It was the type of job you only ascribed to your closest friend. Harry was equally impressed and annoyed. His betrothed wasn't stupid, then. And his betrothed was the one who had already began the process of collecting information. Harry was behind in this political game of cat and mouse and he hadn't even left his homeland yet.

Neither Harry nor Tomlinson talked as the carriage rattled along, Niall and Liam starting up an energetic game of cards. Harry resolutely stared out at the small cut in the carriage door while Tomlinson continued to write away, the quiet scratches of his quill joining Niall and Liam's exclamations and the sound of their travel. Harry wondered what Tomlinson's notes said, although he was sure that he wouldn't have been able to read them either way. Harry could barely understand Tomlinson as it was – only enough to pick up the disdain when Tomlinson scoffed at his own pronunciations of the Common Tongue.

It would be a full week until they reached the sea. Harry hoped that they would be attacked by robbers before they ever touched the shore.

 

Harry didn't even know how the war had started, the origins having long devolved into the realm of horror stories and myth. Suffice to say, the kingdom had been at war for decades, far longer than Harry had even been alive, and people forgot all of the trivial details as the cemeteries overflowed. Harry had once heard one of the cooks claim that it was all because someone's daughter fucked someone she wasn't supposed to, and Harry figured that was probably closer to the truth than what his tutor had ever told him about treaties broken and lands stolen. If there was one thing Harry learned from his private history lessons, it was that men loved to start wars over snatch.

Regardless of how it started, it continued, on-and-on, perpetual, endless, for something like forty years. A lifetime – a short one, yes, but a lifetime nonetheless. Countless souls lost, families ripped apart, soil cursed with spilled blood. Harry had seen it all – as the Prince, as the heir-apparent, he _had_ to see it, bear witness to the tragedy his people endured, even while remaining the Prince with the golden smile, the Prince with endless charisma and charm.

And then Harry's father had died, the brave, fearless warrior-king cut down in battle, and it seemed as though the entire world tilted into chaos. Harry's sister had long left the country, contentedly married to her own King a world away, and Harry himself was deemed too young, too foolish, too inexperienced to assume the throne, and so his mother was trafficked into a hasty marriage with an Earl, who became the sovereign. Harry loved Robin, always had as a mentor and one of the closest friends of his father's, but one day a message arrived, promising an end to the conflict in exchange for several small things, and Robin leaped at the opportunity, even when the negotiations turned away from lands gained and lost and into sons bartered, traded.

It was one thing to be betrothed to the offspring of an enemy nation. Harry could deal with that, understood that his immense privileges came at the price of his independence and will. It was an entirely other thing to be told that he needed to pack all of his things, bid adieu to his family and his Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, save Niall and Liam, and leave _immediately_ to join his newly-betrothed a thousand miles away.

Harry would be living in a stranger's palace, would be eating a stranger's meals and would join a stranger's court. He didn't know the history or the customs – had never been taught such details because their countries were at war and one did not learn about the ways of people you wanted to kill, did not dare attempt to recognize their humanity. He didn't know anyone there – every familiar face of importance was crammed into this small carriage with him. Harry didn't even really know what his betrothed _looked_ like, nor did Harry speak the same language, hadn't been able to understand Tomlinson when he appeared with gifts for Harry from his betrothed – an entirely new wardrobe of fine clothing, books that Harry couldn't read, apparently a small palace along the sea that Harry could visit every summer. And lastly, a large amethyst ring, exquisitely cut and set in gold, the band of which was actually a snake. “Tomlinson says the snake is a symbol of eternal love,” Niall had whispered at Harry's bewildered expression. “And of course your birth stone. The Prince designed it for you – he's certainly done his research.” Harry nodded and felt at a loss as he admired the deep purple stone. His betrothed was going through great pains to get to know everything about him, and Harry hadn't bothered to learn anything at all. Hopefully his stepfather would be sending along some sheep or something.

 

Harry thudded his head against the skeleton of the carriage again, closing his eyes and forcing himself to nap, the one escape allowed to him. He felt alone in the wild, and maybe he was.

 


	2. Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But before Harry could do anything, before he could prioritize through the seemingly endless list of tasks he needed to accomplish before the wedding ceremony to a man he had never even met, Harry had to first take a step off shore and board the boat that would lead him to his betrothed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless eternal thanks to my two betas, Fee and Emily. I don't know how I would be able to write _anything_ without both of your help. 
> 
> Also, thank you to Rue, Caty, and everyone else who has checked in with me on the progression of this fic. Thank you all for your kind, motivational words (or in Rue's case, yelling and threats).

It wasn't until Harry got out to the sea that he realized just how much precious _time_ he had wasted sulking.

Harry couldn't even remember the last time he had been on the shore like this, couldn't remember the last time he had felt the sea's salty spray. It was a brisk day, the horizon thankfully clear of clouds, but the air was dry and unrelenting, wind snapping and causing Harry's hair to fly into his mouth every time he turned his head. Yet the sea was just as Harry remembered it from the halcyon days of his youth – greenish blue, rolling watery hills that stretched as far as his eyes could see. It seemed endless, an escape. Maybe even a promise.

Harry was escorted out of the carriage and walked past the crowds that had piled onto the beach, news of the Prince's departure spreading through the country like wildfire. Harry wondered how his step-father was spinning it, how they were rationalizing selling their future King away to a land that with immeasurable wealth. Liam, who was in charge of Harry's personal security, murmured that Harry should follow the rest of the company directly into the boat simply as a safety measure, but Harry didn't _want_ to, wanted to watch the hypnotic waves for as long as he could. Who knew if he would ever be able to again. Stepping up into that boat, feeling the lurch of its motions underneath his feet, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, eating unfamiliar food – that would make all of this _real_ , and Harry wasn't sure if his brain could handle that cardinal fact quite yet.

The last few days of travel by carriage had been largely uneventful. Harry had the foresight to pack several books and his writing utensils and he attempted to amuse himself with words for a few hours every day, just to keep his mind sharp and occupied, but Harry had never been much of a reader, and as much as he wanted to write a letter to his sister, Gemma, lamenting this situation he had somehow been roped into, he didn't yet have the words for it. Harry just missed _everything_ – the festivities of court and all of his friends, the warm, heavy comfort food of his people, nothing at all like the light, airy fare Tomlinson was trying to introduce to Harry, the gentle embrace of his mother and the familiar heat of her bosom. One day, Harry vaguely wondered when he would be able to see his mother next, sure that his family would be unable to attend the marriage ceremony, and the cold shudder that went through his body at the thought that this might be _it_ felt crueler than any punishment he had ever endured. The entirety of his universe had been shrunk down to fit into the inside of a small carriage, and Harry was rightfully terrified.

Liam and Niall continued to be good company, but Harry was hardly able to have the long, introspective conversations with them that he wanted to. All of their interactions were monitored, if not by Tomlinson, by some other member of Harry's betrothed's court. There were quite a lot of them, dozens of men on the King's bankroll and tasked with ensuring Harry's comfort and safe arrival, all well-dressed and endlessly polite whenever Harry required something from them. Harry knew from whispers throughout the years that his betrothed came from wealth that Harry could only imagine, Harry's own family hopelessly in debt due to years of war, mismanagement, and blight, but it was still intimidating to see it, even this tangentially, made something heavy sit in his stomach every time he ran his fingers over the amethyst ring Harry had taken to wearing on a chain around his neck.

It was obvious, however that Harry was primarily under Tomlinson's charge. Tomlinson hardly let Harry out of his sight, blue eyes sharp, calculating, always assessing. He hardly spoke directly to Harry, only turning to Niall to communicate basic information throughout the day once they all realized that Niall was the only one to understand Louis' Common Tongue and vice versa. The entire experience was unnerving because Harry couldn't help but wonder whether Louis' inability to understand Harry was an act or not. Harry knew that if he switched to a different tongue – Liam's mother language was obscure enough and a plausible option – Tomlinson might not be able to follow and Harry could communicate with Liam and Niall freely, but Harry didn't want to chance anything. Tomlinson appeared to be rather ridiculously well-versed, Niall muttering into Harry's ear one night that he was almost sure that Louis received an extensive education in a monastery, same as Niall had experienced in his boyhood. It was common in Harry's kingdom for the youngest sons to become priests, and Niall most certainly would've remained on that path had Harry not gone on a tour of the far-flung territories, striking up a friendship with Niall during the summer they both spent at the Horan estate and practically begging both the King and Niall's father to have Niall come serve Harry at court instead. Harry could not be sure whether the customs were the same in Louis' lands, if he had been placed at a monastery with the explicit goal of joining the clergy or if he was sent to one as part of the intensive training required to become a diplomat, but either way, Harry couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that Louis grasped everything Harry said and was making note of it on the sheets he scribbled on day in and day out.

Harry didn't know what to do. Didn't know how he would be able to play catch-up and get to a point where he felt prepared for his rapidly approaching marriage and the rest of his life in a foreign land. There was so much he needed to _do_ – learn the language, master the customs and try not to embarrass himself too much, make friends at court and guarantee Liam and Niall's comfort and security, prove his utility and find ways to cement his position amongst the royal family beyond the role of a peace betrothal. These were the sorts of skills that most princes and princesses in Harry's situation spent _years_ cultivating – developing the necessary charming personality, educating themselves on obscure traditions and cultivating desired talents, and tirelessly studying the tastes of others to be most amenable to a variety of needs – yet Harry had never received such in-depth tutoring. He was the one in the position of power in his earlier betrothal – the woman in question being a daughter of a warrior chieftan that Harry's family had conquered – so Harry had never really learned how to be an attractive partner, had assumed he could get away with actually being himself. But with these new developments, Harry needed to somehow find a way to cram years of etiquette, language, and history education into his brain over the course of _two months_. And that was not even taking into account navigating a way to establish a close relationship with the Prince once they ultimately met, learning what fed his lust, somehow earning a position as both lover and confidante, and ultimately trying to find an adopted heir that they could both agree upon and which would solidify Harry's safety in a kingdom that could easily orchestrate his quiet removal. So much to do, in so little time – Harry didn't even know which task he should attempt first.

But before Harry could do _anything_ , before he could prioritize through the seemingly endless list of tasks he needed to accomplish before the wedding ceremony to a man he had never even met, Harry had to first take a step off shore and board the boat that would lead him to his betrothed. Harry figured he could manage that.

 

Contrary to popular belief and what some of his old court might have said, Harry was _not_ stupid. Nor was he the “Prince Brat” or whatever other nickname the nobility coined in order to discredit him and make him seem like a fool. He might have played certain roles, yes, and to convince some at court that he wasn't a threat he might have feigned vapidness, but Harry wasn't stupid. His comfort was always first and foremost in his mind, and he would _always_ act in his own best interest. It was as simple as that.

The boat Harry's betrothed had acquired for Harry's retrieval was fairly large, but Harry's quarters were naturally located right next to Tomlinson's on the second floor of the vessel. Tomlinson showed Harry around the room, Niall serving as interpreter, and then introduced Harry briefly to the servants who would be tending to him during the weeks of long sea travel. Louis excused himself to go to bed, perhaps to quell seasickness as he appeared pale and red-eyed, and Harry, Niall, and Liam held their dinner in Harry's quarters, dismissing the servants after the second course to eat in some semblance of privacy.

“I'm not sure I'll ever get used to this food,” Harry admitted after several long moments, placing his fork on the table with a sigh. “It's all so – ” Harry made a vague hand gesture before resting his chin in his palm, sighing once more.

“It's just different,” Liam answered soothingly, his voice a low murmur. “You will adjust.”

“I know,” Harry admitted, brushing long hair out of his eyes. Harry wondered dimly whether his betrothed would like the long curls, or if he would prefer Harry with shorter hair. It was impossible to guess. “I _have_ to.”

“Have you started thinking about how you're going to play all of this?” Niall asked, a small grin dancing across his typically carefree countenance. “Is that what that determined look means?”

“Maybe,” Harry replied coyly. “I just – I'll need your help, of course.”

“That's what Liam and I are here for,” Niall said, exchanging a glance with Liam and smiling. “Not just for security or for good company. The Queen knew that Liam and I were the ones best equipped to assist you during this time, and that is what we have been tasked to do.”

Harry was glad that his mother had foresight, considering it was one trait that Harry sorely lacked. “I need your help with prioritizing, I suppose,” Harry mused. “I've made a list of things I need to do to get off to the strongest start upon my arrival.”

“Well, the first natural step is to learn the language,” Liam put in, frowning when Harry looked at him incredulously. “What? It is. And not that posh version of the Common Tongue that Tomlinson and Niall are using. Your betrothed's actual mother tongue. You should ask Tomlinson to teach you.”

“You mean Niall should ask Tomlinson,” Harry answered. “Considering I can't.”

“Does anyone else get the impression that he can completely understand us and he's just toying with us?” Liam asked. “Because sometimes I catch him looking at us a little sneakily, like he's got a secret.”

“I'm actually pretty sure he can,” Niall replied around a mouthful of chicken. “I mean – I can understand him when he switches from the Common Tongue and I didn't even finish my time at the monastery.”

“We're getting distracted,” Harry said, waving his hands over the table. “Let's focus again. So first – language. But then what?”

“The language lessons will be a vehicle to everything else,” Niall said. “A means to learn about history, culture. And primarily a way to collect information about the Prince.”

“Have you had the opportunity to learn anything about my betrothed?” Harry asked, looking between Niall and Liam, both of whom shook their heads.

“I knew already that he's their oldest and only boy,” Niall answered with a slight shrug. “I overheard some guards saying he was bookish? He clearly likes gifts. But that's it.”

“He and Tomlinson are close,” Liam put in. “That's a resource. You just have to find out how to utilize it.”

Harry rubbed his temples and stared at Liam and Niall, eyes welling slightly with tears as he felt himself become suddenly overwhelmed with affection. There weren't many people around who would've gladly left their homeland, their family and friends, all of the comforts of a world they knew, in order to join a prince on such an adventure – even when called. And yet Niall and Liam had both done so gladly, abandoning their own aspirations and eagerly joining Harry abroad. Harry hoped that one day he would be able to repay them with wealth and happiness beyond anything they could ever dream.

“Oh, now, enough of that,” Niall murmured, walking around the length of the table to engulf Harry in one of his infamous hugs. Harry melted into his embrace, taking a long, watery breath against Niall's shoulder.

“I love you, Ni,” Harry whispered. “And you, too, Liam. You're both – I would be absolutely _lost_ without either of you – ”

“But we're both here,” Liam answered firmly, standing up himself to ruffle Harry's hair reassuringly. “We're both here, and we will find a way to make all of this work, yes?”

“Yes,” Harry said, and when he said it, he almost believed it.

 

Tomlinson was indeed seasick, and it was another two days before he was feeling well enough to come and sit out on the deck with Harry, Niall, and Liam. The three of them had since explored the entirety of the ship and realized that there were not many places for them to spend the light hours. Harry was attempting to learn the names of members of the crew, as well as the cooks down in the boat's kitchen, but the language barrier prevented Harry from making much headway, although all of the men and women aboard seemed touched by Harry's efforts nonetheless. The ship's captain had a few books in the Common Tongue that Harry had taken to perusing, but they were primarily on maritime, and consequently not particularly useful for Harry.

Harry was lounging on a bench and looking through one of said books, wearing one of the thinner robes his betrothed had provided and listlessly turning pages while Niall and Liam messed about with their trusted deck of cards, when Tomlinson plopped down onto the bench beside Harry. He didn't look nearly as formal as he had during their days of transport by carriage – long brown hair flopping about his face with every strong gust of wind, chemise open wide at the neck and short breeches that stopped at the knee – and he looked far healthier, nowhere near as peaky as he had just a few days prior. If Harry hadn't known better, he would've mistaken him for one of the sailors, all tanned skin and glistening muscles.

Tomlinson crossed his legs at the ankle before turning to look at Harry, his eyes doing that sharp, assessing thing that made Harry feel like a small child. Tomlinson was reaching over and grabbing at Harry's necklace before Harry even realized what he was doing, Tomlinson tutting slightly as he held the chain and amethyst ring between his index finger and thumb.

“Your Highness, why don't you just wear the ring on your hand like a normal person?” Tomlinson asked, his tongue wrapping around the words perfectly, Liam and Niall both turning from their game and staring.

“I keep it on a chain so it's closer to my heart,” Harry replied, bewildered. “But – since when – I _knew_ you could understand me!”

Tomlinson did not even have the modesty to look sheepish. “Of course, Your Highness. Your Common Tongue is an abysmal insult to the language, but not unintelligible, and I can speak seven languages.”

“Then why – ?”

“A bit of a test, I suppose,” Tomlinsons answered, leaning back against the bench and smirking. “Wanted to see how long it would take you to get frustrated with using translators and pursue actual direct communication. I must admit, Your Highness, I was starting to worry you lack initiative.”

Harry could feel anger start to roil hot and heavy in his stomach. “That – that's not funny. None of this entire situation is humorous – ”

Tomlinson shook his head, a small frown on his face. “Nobody said it was, Your Highness.”

“Your mocking tone would insinuate otherwise,” Harry hissed.

“Your Highness – ”

“Can you stop calling me that?” Harry demanded. “I hate titles and pretense, particularly among people who are not particularly attempting to show respect.”

Tomlinson appeared simultaneously pleased and taken aback but he nodded his head deferentially anyway. “Look, _Harry_. This is a learning experience for all of us, yes? Five months ago, none of us knew the war was ending, let alone that you would be the Prince Consort coming to our kingdom. Prince Zayn just wanted me to befriend you during our travels together. I cannot help it that I have a bit of a – ah, playful streak.”

“Are you my betrothed's personal jester, then?” Harry asked, crossing his arms over his chest and jutting his chin out petulantly.

Tomlinson smiled and tilted his head. “A little bit, yes.”

Harry frowned and turned away from Louis. “Well, perhaps I should let you know now – I don't appreciate tricks.”

“You don't appreciate tricks when they're being played against _you_ ,” Tomlinson clarified. “I doubt you don't appreciate jokes and a bit of fun in general.”

“Yes, well, we are not friends,” Harry pointed out. “So if my betrothed tasked you with that, you have failed.”

“It's early in our trip yet,” Tomlinson replied. “We will be fast friends, just you see.”

Harry sniffed. “I sincerely doubt it.”

“You had me running back and forth between Harry and yourself and you could understand him the _entire_ time?” Niall asked. “Seriously?”

“It made you feel useful, didn't it?” Tomlinson remarked. “We all need to feel special on occasion.”

“Do not speak condescendingly to Lord Duke Horan, please,” Harry answered.

Tomlinson grinned, letting his eyes slide over Niall and Liam. “I cannot make any promises.”

“Who _are_ you?” Harry asked, not even bothering to be polite any longer. “Who are you to my betrothed?”

“I am also a Lord Duke,” Tomlinson answered. “The Prince granted me my title. But you already know that.”

“So you are close friends?”

“Others would say so, yes.”

Harry barely refrained from rolling his eyes. “And what would _you_ say?”

“That the Prince is essentially a brother to me,” Tomlinson replied.

“Lovely,” Harry answered. “And as the Prince and I are about to be joined as one whole, you are essentially a brother to me, as well, and I would ask that you approach me and my Gentlemen with the same respect you would approach my betrothed.”

Tomlinson smirked and nodded his head. “I will do so, Your Highness.”

“Harry.”

“I will do so, _Harry_ ,” Tomlinson corrected.

“Thank you,” Harry answered tersely, feeling thoroughly exhausted, and only partially from his hours under the unrelenting sun. He stood, beckoning for Niall and Liam to do the same. “Now, if you excuse me, I think I will spend some time down in my quarters.”

“Are you not going to ask me for tutoring lessons?” Tomlinson asked innocently even as his blue eyes glimmered with mischief.

“Wha – ”

“It's only that I heard you all discussing it a few days ago over supper,” Tomlinson replied. “It's probably for the best we begin your studies immediately, correct? Considering you have _clearly_ not had any sort of useful training.”

Harry was probably going to end up throttling Tomlinson at some point. The only thing holding Harry back was Tomlinson's close relationship to his betrothed, and Tomlinson _knew_ it, was seemingly reveling in holding that fact above Harry's head with his coy smirk and calculating eyes.

“Perhaps tomorrow, at daybreak?” Harry asked with a strained smile. “I'm feeling rather dehydrated.”

“Why, yes, as you wish, Your Highness,” Tomlinson replied.

“ _Harry_ ,” Harry corrected once more, but when Tomlinson continued to smile blithely, Harry gave up and retired to his room so he could resume the earlier sulk he had resolved to abandon.

 

Harry was able to successfully avoid Tomlinson for a few days, but eventually Niall and Liam tired of Harry's listlessness and complaints and forced him into Tomlinson's quarters. The room was a mirror of Harry's, only slightly smaller, with modest light fixtures attached to the walls and a sprawling bed. Tomlinson was sitting at his desk when Harry entered, his long, brown hair braided close to his head in a way that Harry noticed a few members of the crew wore theirs, and dressed in his simple cotton outfit of an airy top and short breeches. Tomlinson looked up upon Harry's arrival and turned around in his chair, standing and sinking into a bow.

“Your Highness,” Tomlinson began. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I was hoping we could begin the tutoring lessons you mentioned several days ago,” Harry said. “Unless I am interrupting – ?”

“Oh, not at all,” Tomlinson answered, reaching behind himself to shut the book he was scribbling in. Harry presumed it was some sort of journal, although knowing Tomlinson, it really could be anything. “Please, take a seat, Your Highness.”

“Harry,” Harry corrected, but he did as he was told, sitting down gingerly on top of Louis' bed for lack of other options.

Tomlinson grabbed his own chair and brought it to face the bed, smiling as he said, “Harry. I apologize.”

“So,” Harry began. “You can understand me. Please explain how.”

Tomlinson clucked his tongue as he rested his chin in his hand. “So blunt, Your Highness – I mean Harry. I learned your mother tongue when I was receiving my education at monastery. There was a period around the time the war started – I guess forty or so years ago – when your language fell out of favor, but my parents always thought I should receive a diplomat's education, so. There you have it. Most everyone at court _should_ be able to understand you. You know how enterprising noblemen are – the more languages you can speak, the more desirable you are in general, and I believe people have been rushing to tutors, lining up to brush up and worm their way into your inner circle.” Tomlinson shifted a shoulder, somehow managing to make the common gesture look dignified. “Between your mother tongue and the Common Tongue, you should be able to communicate just fine.”

“So I do not need to learn my betrothed's language?” Harry asked.

“No, not particularly,” Tomlinson answered. “I mean – if you want to show off and surprise him, yes, by all means, I can teach you. He's under the assumption that you only speak the Common Tongue, and you do – poorly, but you know. We all have our flaws.”

“Is my grasp of the Common Tongue truly that atrocious?” Harry said. “My tutors never said anything.”

“Your court was falling into shambles around the same time you were brought up, correct?” Tomlinson asked. Harry had never met someone so carelessly brusque before. Harry knew he should be offended, but he was somehow more than a little charmed, perhaps at the honesty. Harry couldn't remember the last time someone had insulted him to his face. Harry was constantly facing invectives from members of his own court, but they were always indirect, sly digs at his intelligence, competence, and character. “Your family probably couldn't afford the best tutors for you at that point.”

“Thanks,” Harry rejoined.

Tomlinson patted Harry's knee patronizingly. “Don't you worry. We have a full month on this cursed ship – plenty of time to reverse years of shoddy tutelage.”

“Is this how you speak to everyone?” Harry asked. “Even at court? Even to the Prince?”

Tomlinson blinked. “Yes.”

Harry rubbed at his eyes and barked out a laugh. “Have you tutored anyone else before?”

“Yes, of course,” Tomlinson answered. “I tutored Zayn in your mother tongue before we left.”

“You tutored my betrothed?”

“You know you can refer to him by name directly, Your Highness,” Tomlinson replied, somewhat haughtily. “Zayn's not a demon. He won't appear if you use his name three times.”

“I – I never – ”

“You're going to have to realize this thing is truly happening at some point,” Tomlinson continued. “And no better point than right now. You _are_ marrying Prince Zayn, you _are_ going to be living at his court, and you will need to have a solid plan in place if you are to succeed at either of those ventures. It is not an ideal situation, but it's not a nightmare, either. People have sorted their way through worse.”

“You think I don't know that?” Harry rasped. “I'm doing my best, given the situation.”

“No, you're not,” Tomlinson blurted. “You spent the entire time I was at your court whining and avoiding people, and I could say the same about the carriage ride to the sea. We could've started your tutoring ages ago – which is what Prince Zayn was expecting, to be honest – but instead I've had to wait around for you to start showing some sense.”

“We could've started this tutoring ages ago, but you were also insistent upon playing some sort of elaborate chess match as soon as we met,” Harry retorted. “So please, do not speak to me as if I am a child. I do not know what _your_ court is like, but I refuse to indulge in cruelty for boredom's sake. My cruelty is far more targeted. You will either help me with these tasks, or I will make a point of speaking to every single person in your court, including the Prince, and complain about how unwelcome and unfriendly you are to outsiders.”

Tomlinson raised an eyebrow. “So the Prince Brat has some bite to his bark?”

“Do _not_ call me the Prince Brat,” Harry bristled.

“Fine, fine,” Tomlinson said, waving his hand and considering Harry closely.

“What?” Harry asked, shivering under the intensity of Tomlinson's gaze.

“Just trying to get a good read on you, that's all,” Tomlinson replied. “I wasn't party to the negotiations that led to you coming to our kingdom, but I _have_ heard things. Why do you think you've been sent here and not vice versa?”

Harry opened his mouth before closing it, feeling vaguely like a toad as he did so. “I – I don't know.”

“You have to had thought about it,” Tomlinson goaded. “Why _you_ were the one who was sent away. Or – why didn't King Yaser and your step-father carve some bit of land aside for you and Prince Zayn to rule over together?”

Harry shook his head stubbornly. He couldn't – he refused to discuss something so intimate and personal with a virtual stranger. “I haven't thought about it.”

“Of course you have,” Tomlinson pushed. “You can tell me. We're already on the sea – days and days away from your homeland. No one from your old court can even hear you. We're friends now, Harry.”

“We're _not_ friends.”

“We should be,” Tomlinson pointed out. “I've been sent here to essentially have your back.”

“You've been sent here to assess whether I'm a threat,” Harry said.

“That too,” Tomlinson answered. “And I feel like you're not – you're just someone looking out for himself, and I respect that and am here to help. But the first way to do that – before teaching you all of the boring stuff like which Duke is the richest and who you can't ever annoy at court as much as you would like to – is to understand how you got in this position, and how to guarantee it will never happen again. So, Harry. Why do you think you're on this boat, right now?”

Harry was quiet for several moments, studiously examining his palms and listening to the comforting creaks and moans of the ship as it moved over the water. Harry could hear Niall's distinctive laughter from across the hall, loud and boisterous. Suddenly, stupidly, Harry wished Niall and Liam were here to help him prepare an answer. But this was a sort of training all of its own, Harry realized. Learning how to answer tough questions under pressure. Because people at his betrothed's court were certainly wondering why the only son of a warrior nation was so hastily sent away, essentially stripped of everything but his title as Prince and sent to live abroad as a peace bride. And Harry would have to learn how to spin that narrative to his advantage, how to turn his greatest weakness into an asset. But at this particular moment, Harry had no idea how to even start. How he could possibly make the saddest moment in his life into its own triumph.

“I – I can only speculate,” Harry whispered, licking his lips. “But my father, the King – he died in battle. We, as a nation, were ill-prepared for his death. We knew, of course, that men die in war all of the time, but for whatever reason, no one ever assumed it would happen to him.” Harry paused, running his hands through his hair before turning back to lock his gaze with Tomlinson's. “When they told me, I was eager to assume my position on the throne. I knew I could do it. I'd been raised my whole life for that moment. But I found out that Parliament had rushed through a new amendment to our Constitution that changed the age at which a Prince can assume the throne, and that my mother had _actually_ approved it. She said she was just trying to protect me. She was counseled into a hasty marriage and she let my step-father, the King, take over the tasks of daily rule, same as she had with my father.”

“Do you not have a good relationship with your step-father?” Tomlinson queried.

“I thought I did,” Harry replied with a soft sigh. “He was kind and close to my father. It made sense that he would be the one selected to marry my mother. But – that throne was mine. That throne _is_ mine. I – I don't care what sort of amendments they pass or what Parliament says. It's my birthright.”

Tomlinson smirked, nodding slowly to himself, and Harry couldn't help but feel as though he had passed some sort of test, although what Tomlinson was measuring, Harry could only guess.

 

Harry and Tomlinson – or Louis, as he insisted upon being called – organized to meet up every day for seven hours of intensive tutoring, spending some time out on the deck and the rest down in Harry or Louis' quarters. Harry was surprised to find that beyond their initial conversations, Louis was actually a fairly good teacher. He was generous with compliments whenever Harry actually managed to remember something or answer a question correctly, and he was endlessly patient and really quite knowledgeable on a whole host of subjects. Niall and Liam sat on the lessons on occasion – particularly during the three-hour language blocks – but for the most part, the tutoring served as an opportunity for Harry and Louis to get to know each other.

Harry, in all honesty, felt like an open book compared to Louis, who kept important tidbits about his personality hidden beneath a veneer of jokes and pranks. It was slightly easier to get Louis to talk about Harry's betrothed, but even then, Louis didn't provide information that was particularly useful. “I dunno, the Prince likes animals,” Louis would reply when prodded, or “I suppose he can be a bit moody at times.” But mostly Louis would just answer, “You'll see what he's like when you meet him, and then you can decide what he's like for yourself.”

Thankfully, Tomlinson was more forthcoming with information about his land's history and customs, and for that Harry was eternally grateful. Harry had endless pages of notes – holidays and folk stories and religious superstitions scribbled onto parchment and crammed into his head. Harry still felt as though he had only a child's simple understanding of the land he was rapidly approaching, but Louis was optimistic that Harry would adapt quickly. “All of you will be fine,” he said to Harry, Liam and Niall when they were only a day away from land. “Your language skills will improve with immersion, your understanding of decorum will come with practice, and your comfort with court will only come with months of experience. I promise that for the first five months or so everyone will want to be on your good side because you are all new, shiny toys. So please, do not worry.”

Harry smiled to Louis' face as he bid adieu that night, but his stomach roiled with anxiety as he crept into bed nonetheless.

 

Harry was not sure what he was expecting of his betrothed's homeland, but the minute Harry disembarked from the ship, legs wobbly from weeks on board, he was met with clear skies, silky breezes, and the crunch of sand underneath his boots. Birds dotted the horizon, and further down the beach Harry could see a small cadre of men on horseback, presumably the party tasked with giving Harry a warm welcome. The beach was sandy white, so bright it hurt Harry's eyes and he attempted to shade them with his hands, but gradually the shoreline gave way to lush greenery, leading up to steep hills covered with thick trees. As Harry attempted to squint and see further inland, he could make out the dots of properties, large white buildings built far apart from each other, presumably in massive estates. It was almost the polar opposite of the beaches Harry recalled from his own homeland, which, like almost every other part of the kingdom, were filthy and densely populated. To Harry's side, Niall let out a low whistle, sweat beading across his own brow from the oppressive heat.

“Is this the reason all of the robes my betrothed provided were so thin?” Harry asked Louis, who finally disembarked from the ship himself, dressed in his usual linen chemise and doublet, long brown hair held back from his face with a strip of fabric.

“Yes,” Louis answered shortly. “We all know your kingdom is its own frozen hell, and we figured you would need lighter attire once you arrived.”

Harry turned back to stare again at the houses far across the horizon. “I never knew that it was so warm here.”

Louis turned and bopped Harry on the nose condescendingly. “That is because you received an extremely substandard education for a royal and were subsequently hardly equipped for rule.”

Harry frowned. “That's mean, Louis.”

“Oh, was it?” Louis asked, turning and waving his arm, beckoning excitedly to one of the men on horseback. The man came bounding over, his horse a beautiful chestnut color with a reddish-brown mane and tail, the mare only seeming to preen when the man came to a stop in front of the ship. Closer up, Harry could see that the man was similarly dressed to Louis, wearing only airy linen fabrics, but the sides of his head were shaved, the remaining long, curly dark hair collected in a thick braid. “Matty,” Louis said warmly, walking over to the mare and patting its sides before turning to smile at the man, who gracefully alighted from the horse.

“My Lord Duke Tomlinson,” the man answered with a small nod of his head. “I take it you had a productive trip?”

“I've told you a million times – 'Louis' will suffice,” Louis replied. “But the Prince was right. I can admit there are indeed some merits to travel. I presume all of court was waiting with bated breath for my return?”

“If only for the lack of gossip,” the man smirked while Louis squawked. “But please – ”

“Ah, yes, the pomp and circumstance,” Louis mumbled, grabbing Harry's hand and jerking him to his side. In all of his years, Harry had never been manhandled as much as he had by Louis in the past few weeks. For someone who was clearly an affluent nobleman with an extensive education, Louis had very little regard for decorum or maintaining appearances. “Lord Duke Matthew Healy, may I formally introduce you to the Prince Consort, His Royal Highness Prince Harry Styles. The two men over there are members of his Gentlemen of the Bedchamber – Lord Duke Niall Horan and Sir Liam Payne. ”

The man sank into a deep bow before clasping Harry's hand in both of his. “It is an honor and a privilege to be in your service, Your Highness.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Sir Healy,” Harry answered politely, smiling warmly at Matty when he stood straight once more. “Are you in charge of the company that will take me to my betrothed?”

Matty blinked once before turning to Louis with a scowl. “You told him nothing of the itinerary?”

Louis shook his head, a sly grin playing at the side of his lips. “That's _your_ job, Matty. I brought him here in one piece and significantly better informed – my duties are completed. I'm going to Abbas for a holiday before the wedding.”

“That's not what the Prince communicated to me,” Matty answered. “He said you were to stay with the Prince Consort up until the day of the ceremony, at which point you could leave court and visit the Prince's personal palace in the interior, as you are wont to for holidays.”

Louis let out the least dignified whine Harry had ever heard emitted from the mouth of another human being. “But I wanted my holiday _now_ , yeah? The cook at Abbas makes the best biscuits.”

Matty tilted his head and Harry had difficulty interpreting the strange look that crossed his face as he directed his total attention toward Louis. “Have the cook called up for the wedding – you can have biscuits then. You _know_ the Prince trusts you more than anyone else in the entire kingdom. You must fulfill his wishes and stay by the Prince Consort's side where you are needed.”

“Is this really Zayn's wish – his _need_?” Louis remarked, Harry feeling taken aback by Louis' suddenly spiteful tone. “Or is it – ?”

“ _Louis_ ,” Matty warned, eyes darting over to look at Harry.

“You're right, you're right,” Louis mumbled, deflating slightly as his voice slipped into a monotone. “I'm in the service of the Prince and now that of his betrothed. I will stay where I have been assigned.”

“Thank you, Louis,” Matty said with a wan smile as he turned back to Harry. “Your Highness, we know that you have perhaps tired of being confined in small spaces after your long journey. Are you comfortable on horseback?”

“Yes, of course,” Harry answered, still feeling thrown by Matty and Louis' conversation. “Although I haven't had my own in many years.” As the war escalated and the country's wealth depleted, things like horses seemed like the pettiest of indulgences. Harry hadn't ridden one just for fun since he was about twelve.

Matty turned and beckoned at the other men standing at attention further along the shore. Three of them dismounted, each holding the reigns of beautiful Arabian horses, one sleek and proud with a thick black mane, and the other shyer, with a softer roan coat, the third wilder with gray coloring. “The Prince was not sure which you would prefer – what coat, the ideal temperament,” Matty answered. “So as a natural compromise, he got you all of them.”

Harry stared at all of the horses before turning to Louis, mouth agape. “Is this – is he really – ”

Louis simply pursed his lips, although Harry could see the amusement in Louis' blue eyes. “This _is_ a bit over-the-top, even for Zayn.”

“But they're really – ”

“Yes, they are all yours,” Matty said.”I assume that your Gentlemen can attend to the other two, but they were all selected personally by the Prince for you, and will be housed at your estate.”

Harry inhaled sharply and stammered, “My – my _estate_?”

“Has the Lord Duke told you _anything_?” Matty asked, turning to gasp at Louis. “What did you speak to each other about for weeks on end?”

“I tutored him,” Louis answered defensively. “He hardly knew anything of importance. We didn't have the time to get to his goddamn itinerary and every silly gift Zayn did or didn't buy for him.”

Matty rolled his eyes but somehow refrained from adding any commentary. “The Prince has provided an estate here on the coast for you as a token of his appreciation and burgeoning love for you. You are to stay here for two weeks to get your bearings and introduce yourself to the locals before embarking on a tour of the country. The tour will culminate in the capital for the wedding ceremony, at which point you will meet the royal family and your betrothed. I have not been made privy to the details of your honeymoon, but I anticipate that the Prince will take you to the mountains, as he has his property there.”

“That was quite an excellent summary, Matty,” Louis said as he examined his cuticles.

“Yes, _well_ ,” Matty replied, cutting his eyes to look at Louis briefly. “The Prince appointed myself and the other knights on the beach here to assist you in your transition, but the other men will be staying in the homes of local noblemen as your estate is not quite large enough to accommodate everyone. The Lord Duke, your Gentlemen, and myself will all be staying with you, and are, of course, always at your beck and call.”

“That all sounds splendid, thank you, Lord Duke Healy,” Harry answered, his head swimming with all of the information he needed to digest. “Shall we – ?”

“Yes, my men will be bringing up your belongings from the ship,” Matty replied with a curt nod, grabbing the reins of his horse and climbing onto its back once more. “The Prince also arranged for more clothing to be brought for you – I anticipate that you will soon be in shirts and doublets like the rest of us. It's too hot for such elaborate robes, beautiful as they are. But please, Your Highness, select a horse to ride for the moment, and then we will be off.”

Harry turned to the three horses, not even knowing which to select. They were all so beautiful, and Harry was in awe of each of their sheer strength and dynamism. He could hardly imagine that this was his life – five years ago Harry had to give up his horse as part of the war effort, and now here he was, gifted with three by a man who had been partially, if tangentially, responsible for his beloved Lola's removal. Louis pushed at Harry's shoulder slightly and Harry moved toward the black one, running his hand through her mane and grinning when she whinnied and pressed her face firmly against Harry's arm. “Her name is Abal,” Matty said. “She's a sturdy one.”

The other servants helped Harry into the saddle and Harry sighed at the familiar sensation of leather reigns in his hands, the simultaneous power and disorientation of sitting astride such a forceful being. “Thank you,” Harry said genuinely, addressing Louis and Matty in turn.

“Don't thank us,” Louis answered, grinning when another man came over with a horse of his own. “Thank your betrothed.”

 

The roads were narrow, so they were forced to scale the hills single-file, one at a time, the horses kicking up dust as they plodded slowly along. Harry was tired after about half an hour of riding, thighs aching with exertion, the heat seemingly clinging to Harry's skin and only accentuating how dirty and fatigued he felt. Harry knew they couldn't possibly be going very far and that they hadn't even been off the ship for very long, but the journey felt endless as they moved deeper and deeper into the interior, Matty clucking his tongue every time Harry asked how much further they had to ride.

After a few miles, they finally reached a plateau, the trees thinning to reveal a massive estate overlooking the meadow, cows and sheep grazing lazily. The two-story exterior was painted a soft blue with a roof topped with burnt sienna tiles, and lining the front was an open veranda, where two women were sharing a double chaise and fanning themselves lazily. From a distance, Harry could make out that one was fairer with skin that was already turning red from the sun, the other equally long-limbed, brown hair hastily thrown into a ponytail. Even from several meters out Harry still felt confident in his assumption that they were both members of the nobility. The noblemen Harry had already encountered all seemed to harbor a deep disdain for the elaborate dress of their class, and Harry had not been presented with any evidence that the women would feel any differently. It was strange, particularly because Harry could never remember seeing his mother or sister in anything other than golden-trimmed robes or fine furs, even when their wealth began to deteriorate, and yet here were two beautiful wealthy women, each dressed simply in white petticoats, neither wearing shoes when they ran out to greet the incoming party, the blonde one coming to a sharp stop in front of Matty, the other running directly to Louis.

“Babe!” the brunette gasped, tears running down her face while Louis looked around at the rest of the company with pink cheeks. He alighted from his horse and held the reigns in one hand, wrapping the other arm around the brunette's shoulders and dragged her away from everyone else, who were all following Matty's lead to a large barn on the side of the house.

The blonde, meanwhile, had hoisted herself onto the back of Matty's mare, gathering the fabric of her dress around her thighs and grinning small but satisfied as she wrapped her arms around Matty's waist. Matty turned to Harry with a similarly gratified look on his face, letting his horse trot slowly as he said, “Your Highness, I am pleased to introduce to you Lady Taylor Swift, my fiancee.”

Taylor attempted as best a curtsy one could perform while on the back of a horse. “It is an honor, Your Highness. My companion crying over the Duke is Lady Eleanor Calder.”

“Is Lady Calder his betrothed?” Harry asked, exchanging a quick glance with Liam and Niall, both of whom looked similarly at a loss. Harry could not remember any mention of a fiancee, but Harry also could not imagine that the crying woman could be anyone _but_ a betrothed.

“He didn't mention Eleanor?” Taylor asked, drawing herself up to full height and pursing her lips. “Naturally. Of course he didn't.”

“Taylor, love – ” Matty started but Taylor had already thrown her hair over her shoulder, clearly ready to launch into a rant.

“So, Tomlinson only came to court three years ago, absolutely no money, no reputation, nothing besides his name. People's memories are short in the scheme of things, you know. How were people to remember his father, that Austin fellow? He'd been adopted into the Tomlinson family anyway, given a wonderful education at a monastery. They say he's better educated than the Prince.”

“I doubt the Prince Consort is interested in such trivial gossip,” Matty tried again.

“Of course he is, gossip is the main currency of a man at court, you know that, love,” Taylor said, patting Matty's hip while his cheeks bloomed rosy red. “Anyway, it took about a year before anyone realized that he was the Queen's bastard son – ”

“Taylor,” Matty plead.

“Because when she was about fourteen her betrothal was mysteriously called off and she spent a year away from court 'studying.' She came back, months after Austin had long been forced back to his own family home. There had always been whispers of a child, a boy, but she married the King and had Princess Doniya so shortly afterward that people forgot. Those short memories, yes? Anyway, Tomlinson comes to court, weasels himself in with the Prince, and immediately he becomes a Duke, gets property left, right and center. The Prince also engineered his betrothal to Lady Calder ages ago – and I know she's properly enamored with Tomlinson, believes it's a love match – and yet Tomlinson can hardly be bothered with her.” Taylor clucked her tongue and got down from Matty's horse once the party reached the barn opening. She tossed her head back, eyes wandering over to look at Louis and Eleanor. “It's a shame how he treats her. It's a shame how he treats _everyone_.”

“Taylor,” Matty started, this time his tone sharper.

“Yes, yes, I'm not supposed to speak ill of the Prince's bastard half-brother,” Taylor answered dismissively, smiling at Harry when he couldn't help but crack his own grin, stunned by the brazenness of this woman with straw-colored hair. “Tomlinson knows I hate him. The Prince knows I hate him. _All of court_ knows I hate him. And yet here I am, engaged to the wealthiest _real_ Duke of the kingdom.” Taylor turned to Harry, who got down from his own horse with a small groan of relief. “Anyway, welcome to your estate! You're to have dinner with Matty and I tonight,” Taylor said. “I'm most excited for your company. It's been so droll making your house fit for human habitation all by myself. Please tell Tomlinson that he is allowed to attend, but only if he washes his hair.” Taylor turned with a small curtsey, and made her way into the house, carefree and barefoot, laughing all the way.

Harry glanced at Matty, who had somehow managed to turn an even deeper red. “So. That's my fiancee.”

“The Prince didn't engineer your betrothal, did he?” Harry asked.

“No, my betrothed died when I was thirteen and I went to court to see if I could meet someone,” Matty said. “The King offered – he and my father are close – but I don't know. I wanted a love match. And I met Taylor. She is a beautiful girl. I'm lucky she even gave me the time of day. She just – she doesn't care about all of the politicking. She's good at it, but she disdains it as an artform, and also disdains anyone else who excels at it.”

“Like Louis,” Harry supplied.

“Like the Duke, yes,” Matty replied. “It is rather remarkable what he has been able to accomplish for himself. Some people are resentful.”

“Do you think _Taylor_ is resentful?”

Matty paused, pursing his lips. “Taylor is wary. Her and the Prince are very close – when I first got to court it was assumed he would break his betrothal to marry her instead. No one would've faulted him if it was a love match, especially as Taylor is the daughter of a Marquess. The Prince certainly could've done worse. There are some people at court that assume the animosity between Taylor and the Duke is because he cautioned the Prince against breaking his betrothal.” Matty ran his hand over the long braid at the top of his head and frowned. “It's all messy gossip. I can assure you that she simply wants what's best for the Prince as one of her dearest childhood friends. You don't have to worry about her getting in the way of your marriage.” Harry nodded, filing away this entire conversation for future dissection and introspection. He really would need a journal to keep all of his thoughts in order. “But now – let's get you all settled in, yes? You will have just enough time for a nap before dinner, I presume.”

 

The estate was, in one word, spectacular.

For all of Louis' playful mocking, Harry was indeed used to a colder climate and lodging that matched the weather. The castles of his youth were all large, stone configurations – the sturdy, heavy buildings of warrior-kings, more consideration given to security and warmth than aesthetics. _This_ estate however – there was clearly little regard for protection beyond the barriers nature herself had created, but the house demonstrated endless attention to beauty, comfort, and a sense of openness.

All of the rooms were breezy, white walls, high ceilings, and tall open windows that seemingly beckoned nature to come along inside. The upper levels, particularly those facing eastward towards the sea, had tremendous views of the coast, crashing waves, miles and miles of trees, and the dots of settlements along the beach and hillside. Harry's suite in particular was nothing short of breathtaking, painted the same soft, soothing blue as the house's exterior, his bed right near a balcony overlooking the shoreline. Harry leaned against the railing and let the warmth sink into his bones, wondered just how tan he would get living in a country like this.

“Do you like it, Your Highness?” Matty was the one who had taken Harry on the tour of the estate and, save for the men bringing Harry's belongings into his suite, the only one with him now. Liam, Niall, and Louis had all gradually peeled off after being shown their own rooms. “Lady Swift spent the last three months trying to accommodate it to your liking, but considering she had little to go off of – well. It's completely understandable if you don't – ”

“It's absolutely lovely, thank you,” Harry interrupted, turning and smiling at Matty. “It's – it's beautiful. I've never stayed in a place so exquisite.”

“Well then,” Matty answered with his own quiet grin. “It's nothing compared to the splendor of Prince Zayn's properties. He will take great joy introducing you to each of them.”

“You have all been so kind and gracious to me,” Harry said. “I am _very_ grateful.”

“It has been our absolute pleasure, Your Highness,” Matty replied. “I will leave you to rest. Dinner will be a little before sunset. We will eagerly await your presence.”

“Thank you, Matty!” Harry called and Matty bowed before sweeping back into the house and leaving Harry to his thoughts and the roaring sea.

 

Harry felt as though he had only been asleep for something like fifteen minutes before the door to his suite went crashing open and Louis came bounding through it.

“Wakey-wakey, it's almost time for a Prince's dinner,” Louis sang, crawling onto Harry's bed and poking his cheek.

“This is completely uncalled for,” Harry mumbled half into his pillow. “I am a Prince. Stop poking me.”

“I could care less,” Louis replied brightly, ruffling Harry's hair and laughing like the court jester he was. Harry groaned and forced himself into a sitting position, glaring at Louis who continued to look completely nonplussed. “I saw you talking to Lady Swift,” Louis said instead, swinging his feet over the side of Harry's bed and playing with his sandals. “What wonderful lies was she spinning to you about me?”

“How do you know we were talking about you?” Harry asked, standing and walking across the room to rummage through the chest of clothes the servants had brought up.

“The Lady never speaks of anything else,” Louis answered breezily. “Now, come off it. What was she saying? I need to keep up to date on her insults.”

“She said you were the Queen's bastard son and that you treat your betrothed, Lady Calder, rather poorly.”

Harry turned to study Louis' reaction closely, but Louis just shrugged. “Technically, both of those are true. I'm rather disappointed in her lack of creativity.”

“Why didn't you tell me you were related to the Prince?” Harry said. “That's one of the first things that should come up in conversation.”

Louis frowned. “I did tell you he was a brother to me.” Harry stared at Louis, completely unimpressed. “Well, in my defense, I didn't know I was related to the royal family until a few years ago. I knew that I had been adopted into the Tomlinson family. My mother, or adopted mother, I should say, thought she was barren, but in a bit of fantastical irony, she promptly had four children after they brought me in. _Anyway_. They sent me away to monastery for a while, and when I came back my father told me that they had just enough money to help me become a priest, or I could go to court and try to make a name for myself there. I hated being at monastery so I picked court, and that's when they told me that my birth mother was the Queen.” Louis tilted his head to the side and his frown deepened. “It was a bit of a shock.” Harry snorted and Louis grinned. “But I can assure you, I've never used that connection to get anywhere. The Queen tries to pretend like I don't exist, and the King was outright hostile to me initially. Most of court seems to think I'm engineering a coup or something, but I know Zayn will be amazing on the throne, even with you uselessly, if prettily, at his side.”

“Thanks?” Harry said.

“And as for Lady Calder – Swift is right, I do treat her rather poorly,” Louis answered dismissively. “She's just a little clingy and I've worked hard establishing my rakish, rogue persona.” Louis paused before adding, “She's a fantastic lay, though.”

“I really needed to know that,” Harry replied. “Thank you so much for sharing.”  
“You did!” Louis answered brightly, standing and walking across the room to knock Harry out of the way and grab a shirt and breeches, laying them out on the bed. “Those will look good, yes? Now, let's get down to dinner. Matty was mentioning something about lamb earlier.”

Louis turned and walked out of the room without a backwards glance, leaving the door completely ajar. Harry sighed, looking down at the clothes Louis selected, and went over to close the door so he could get dressed in some semblance of peace.

 

Harry was surprised to see that they were eating dinner outside. The servants had set up a tent, the inside of which was lit with lanterns. A long table had been laid on the grass, completely set for dinner, with all of the utensils made out of smooth wood. Liam and Niall were both already waiting, sitting beside each other near the head of the table, each with nearly empty goblets of wine in hand. Liam looked a little red, eyes unfocused, and Harry snorted at the familiar sight. Niall had a higher tolerance and simply appeared a little more relaxed, wearing his own pair of short pants and an open-necked top that exposed the soft brown hairs on his chest. Eleanor was also sitting at the table, a throw wrapped around thin shoulders, and she preened when Louis left Harry's side to press a soft kiss to her temple.

“You're to sit at the head, Harry,” Niall mumbled and Harry nodded, taking his seat and snorting when he noticed the small labels on each of the dinner plates, his own reading simply “His Royal Highness.”

“Who else are we waiting for?” Harry asked, turning to Louis, who occupied the seat to Harry's left. “Just Matty and Taylor?”

“Swift might have invited over some other girls to keep Niall and Liam occupied,” Louis muttered.

“She did, Your Highness,” Eleanor put in, leaning forward and placing her hand on Louis' elbow while Louis rolled his eyes. “I don't believe I've introduced myself. I am Lady Eleanor Calder. I am most pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Harry said. “These are my Gentlemen, Duke Niall Horan and Sir Liam Payne.”

“Pleasure,” Eleanor said, smiling beatifically. She was quite good-looking, especially when she was smiling, with a heart shaped face and kind brown eyes. She turned back to Louis and murmured, “She invited over Lady Peazer and Lady Smith.”

Louis rolled his eyes. “Those two are always in competition over the same men. Why in the world would Swift invite them over?”

“Louis, please,” Eleanor admonished, turning back to Harry with a forced smile. “They're both lovely.”

Harry forced back another unbecoming snort and admired the inside of the tent a little bit more while Eleanor and Louis chatted about gossip Louis had missed out on at court. Harry did his best to follow, but considering the way most of the names flew over his head, he was certain it wasn't going to stick. Harry wondered if he could coerce Louis into making some sort of chart for him.

They were probably only talking for something like another fifteen minutes before Taylor, Matty, and two unfamiliar pretty girls entered the tent. Taylor, like Eleanor, had only thrown a shawl over her petticoat, but the other two women were wearing something closer to what Harry assumed was formal nobility dress – tightly cinched corsets in addition to the cotton petticoats and hair twisted up into elaborate buns. Both were fairly pretty, both brunettes, but one was more petite, wild curls escaping from her bun, and the other was slightly tanner, with wispier straight hair. Taylor both brought up to the head of the table, gesturing to the curly-haired girl as Lady Peazer, and then introducing the other as Lady Smith, before letting them find their seats and announcing the start of dinner.

It was a fairly simple four course meal, Taylor explaining that she did not want to “take a great deal of Your Highness' time,” particularly after the long journey he had experienced to arrive at the kingdom. All of it in the same vein of light but filling food that Louis had been slowly attempting to acclimate Harry to.

“So, that's like – I dunno what the equivalent is over in your land,” Louis whispered during the first course. “But it's filled with squash – the sauce is a good mix of sweet and savory. Just try it.”

And then, during the second course – “You know what a salad is. Those bits of fruit you see grow here on the coast. Again, it's all sweet. Just eat it.”

Harry was already feeling warm and content by the time the third course came around, head heavy from the glasses of wine he had consumed. The conversation going around the table mainly centered on silly, frivolous things – so-and-so got his wife a new horse as consolation for getting their servant pregnant, Lady Smith was trying to convince her father to let her travel abroad now that the seas were safe, Matty was thinking about giving his hair a trim. “For the wedding, you know,” Matty explained as the servants cleared away empty plates and brought out the main course of lamb with mint sauce. _This_ , at least, was familiar to Harry, even as the conversation turned toward a topic he had been stubbornly avoiding over the past few months.

“I still need to have my dress finished,” Taylor put in, smiling warmly at the servants who exited the tent just as quietly as they entered. “Have you started preparations for the ceremony, Your Highness?”

“I was not able to do much before beginning my travels,” Harry admitted.

“Your tailor is coming tomorrow, Your Highness,” Matty said. “I might have neglected to mention that.”

Harry waved his hand even as a trickle of anxiety began to drip down his spine. “It's no worry.”

“But it's more than just robes and breeches and shoes,” Taylor replied.

“He knows that, thank you, Lady Swift,” Louis answered, smiling down the table artificially. “We have it covered, don't you worry your pretty little head.”

“Well, Your Lord Duke, if you were the one tasked with guaranteeing he learns the customs, then we should all anticipate a spectacular display of embarrassment,” Taylor answered, tone sugary sweet.

“Taylor – ” Matty hissed warningly.

“No, let the Lady speak, Matty,” Louis answered, leaning back in his chair and adopting a haughty expression. “She clearly has so much she needs to say to me. Three months of constipated commentary.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” Taylor retorted. “The months of your absence were the calmest at court in years. Figures your enchantments on the Prince lessen with distance.”

“ _Taylor_ ,” Eleanor and Matty both chided in unison while Taylor smirked.

“Witchcraft,” Louis replied. “Perhaps your weakest charge against me yet.”

“Really?” Taylor hummed mockingly. “We'll see, love. But please, don't let your lamb go cold on my account.” Louis looked down his plate warily and Taylor laughed. “It's not _poisoned_ , you buffoon. Do you honestly think I would let you make a mess in the Prince Consort's new estate? I've known him for all of five hours, and am already deeply fond of him. Wish I could say the same for you.” Taylor brought her goblet to her lips before turning back to whisper something into Matty's ear even as Matty sighed deeply and looked up to the heavens beseechingly.

“Is this typical of your court?” Harry mumbled, bringing his hand to his lips to whisper directly to Louis.

“Unfortunately,” Louis breathed, tone equally low. “That is one thing I admired from my time at your court – the subtlety. Please, Harry, pick your friends wisely.”

Harry nodded and turned to glance at Niall and Liam, both of whom looked just as overwhelmed as Harry felt. Harry didn't know if he should be grateful or fearful that he still had about a month to go before meeting – and marrying – his betrothed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick housekeeping note, but I hope to get on a two-week posting schedule with this fic. It also looks like it's going to another long, 100k+ fic so . . . yay!


	3. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wondered what that was like. To have the luxury of falling in love naturally. No theatrics, no forcing it. Not a political arrangement, boys exchanged for the lowering of weapons. Just letting love happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal thanks to my betas Fee and Emily, and also to Rue who isn't an ~official beta but might as well be. All three of you are amazing and I'm so lucky to have your help! 
> 
> I'm also endlessly grateful to both [Emmie](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/post/92920799391/prettymuchjustsomestuff-so-i-started%22) and [Brea](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/post/93009637206/peterparkerplease-i-drew-some-shitty-fanart-for) who have actually produced some fan art for this fic universe! Please check both works out and show them some love, they are both really amazing artists and deserve all of the happy things.
> 
> And thanks, of course, to all of you for reading! Okay, onto the important things.

Harry blinked awake slowly, body nude atop his mattress, the sheets of which he had kicked off onto the floor during the course of night. Light was streaming through the room from the open balcony, and even though it was still only dawn, it was hot, Harry's skin feeling tacky and slick with a layer of sweat. Harry groaned, wiping at the wetness on his brow, before he turned, only starting slightly when he noticed the beautiful, blonde woman standing stock still above his bed.

Harry should have been more startled by the presence of a witch in his bedroom, particularly one that had seemingly traveled thousands of miles to come stare at him while he slept, but alas. Harry had little patience for surprises anymore.

When Harry was a boy, his mother had a Lady-in-Waiting named Caroline. She was the daughter of a holy man and his mistress and nothing like any of the other women Harry encountered at court. Bronzed where the others were pale, brash where so many were demure – Harry was in awe of her from a young age, sidled up to her whenever he could find the chance. Caroline humored him with a sly smirk and a covert treat pressed into his hand, always with a wink and a finger held to plump lips, and Harry probably first fell in love with her a little bit then.

Harry was summoned to stay with his father for some time as the war began to escalate in its selfish brutality, and Harry did not get the opportunity to see Caroline again until he was something like fifteen, lankier if still awkward, not fully grown into the charm that would eventually define his reputation. But even still, Harry tried his best not to shiver under Caroline's hungry, contemplative gaze when she first noticed him on the eve of his return, their eyes locking across the castle's expansive banquet hall. She came to him that very night, leaving his bedsheets smelling of sex and imported spices and his head hot and fuzzy, and Harry was young and naïve enough to believe that nobody would dare divulge their secret, that he could have both his betrothed and the older woman in service to his mother. His foolishness and her recklessness naturally led to condemnation as whispers swirled that Caroline must have bewitched the young Crown Prince. There was no other explanation as to why Harry would be interested in such an impetuous woman, the bastard daughter of a corrupt man of the cloth and his whore.

They essentially forced her out of court, dreamed up charges and locked her up in a tower with nothing but the clothes on her back. Harry couldn't send her letters, was forbidden from meeting with her, was not even allowed to speak her name unless it was in a whisper to Niall or Liam. Harry sat up alone in his bedchamber for nights on end, crying as he tried to remember her cloying scent.

But one day, the guards went to Caroline's room in that tower and did not find anything there – no furniture, no clothes, most certainly no Caroline. And that's when Harry began to receive the messages, delivered by crows, or cats, all types of creatures of the night. Sweet nothings, promises that could never be kept, and far more rarely, warnings.

One such letter arrived the night before offerings of peace came from that wealthy, far-away, enemy kingdom. On it was scribbled only one word – “ _Run_.” Harry didn't know what it had meant, and didn't particularly pay it any mind. Now Harry figured there was no point wondering what could have happened if he had.

But Caroline was here. Standing above Harry's bed, just as bronzed and beautiful as he remembered her, blonde hair cascading down her shoulders in soft waves. If Harry didn't know better, he would assume she was a woman of his betrothed's own country, dressed simply in a white linen dress and turquoise shawl.

“Darling,” she murmured soothingly. “You look thin.”

Harry blinked as his eyes tracked over Caroline's face. Staring at her was almost like looking through a fog, her features seemingly smudged, and it was disorienting. Harry wondered if it was a side effect of whatever form of magical travel she had used to track him and arrive here. “The food is different,” Harry answered slowly. “Not as heavy. I presume I've lost weight.”

“The stress of being sold to settle a debt must not have helped,” Caroline continued, gathering her dress and sitting down beside Harry. The bed dipped slightly with her weight and Caroline reached over to brush sweat-damp hair out of Harry's eyes, her hands inhumanly cool to the touch. She used to always run a little warm, her skin feeling like fire underneath Harry's fingertips. Harry wished she would still sometimes indulge him with that illusion of banal mortality. Harry was more than a little scared of her otherwise. “My poor darling.”

Harry gulped, withdrawing from Caroline's caress. “How did you get here?”

Caroline smiled, pink lips spreading over two rows of perfectly straight teeth. “A lady never reveals her secrets,” she murmured, voice trickling slow like honey. “I needed to see you off, my love. Make sure that you were safe, had a good journey. It was all announced so quickly, I didn't have the time to put in an appearance at court.”

“And am I?” Harry pressed. “Now that I am here – am I safe?”

Caroline stood, eyes falling shut as her feet traipsed in small circles around the room. She looked like a child playing a game, lips quirked upward in a smile, but Harry knew better, understood that the soft expression that danced across her face was not on account of anything from this realm. “This kingdom can either be your heaven or your hell,” Caroline said, feet still moving in quick patterns around the room. “You are never _safe_ , but you will succeed if you keep your wits about you.”

“Those are both things I could have assumed on my own without a witch's morning call,” Harry pointed out, bracing himself on his forearms so he could sit up in the bed and quirk an eyebrow at Caroline.

Caroline grinned but did not stop her movement around the room. “You know what I need from you,” Caroline whispered. “If you want more from me, I require more of you.”

Something heavy turned in Harry's stomach at the thought. Harry was lucky in that regard – he never sought magic out. It came to him, in the form of a beautiful older woman amused by stupid, awkward youth. Harry was not entirely sure why Caroline continued to visit him years later, why she felt compelled to stay up to date on the events of his life, but Harry never _asked_. If Caroline wished to volunteer preselected bits of information to him, that was one thing. But should Harry come to Caroline with questions of his own, asking for her wisdom and advice, Harry would need to be willing to give a piece of himself up in the bargain. The price seemed to vary, but for a man in a position of great power, like Harry was, Harry couldn't imagine it would come cheap. So he just let Caroline say whatever she needed to say, warnings in the form of riddles, and then let her slip back into the shadows, returning again whenever she needed some amusement.

“You do look peaky, my dear,” Caroline continued, dancing over to the edge of the bed once more to run tapping fingers over the side of Harry's face. “Ask one of your minders for iced tea. The leaves they use here will help build your strength.”

“Of course,” Harry said, trying not to flinch away again from her touch.

“This entire house hums with magic, you know,” Caroline smirked conversationally, letting her hand drop between them on the bed. “Thrumming, steady. The foundations ache with it, almost as though enchantments were built into the very walls.”

Harry frowned up at Caroline. She had never said anything quite like that to him before. “What do you mean?”

Caroline shook her head before putting her finger up to pursed lips. “You'll figure it out, love.”

“Thanks,” Harry muttered. Caroline grinned, incisors sharp and predatory, and she leaned forward, pressing soft lips high against Harry's cheekbone. Harry closed his own eyes and when he opened them once more, Caroline was gone, vanished into the daybreak light like some sort of waking nightmare.

 

Save for the unannounced appearance of a witch, Harry's time at the coastal estate settled into a steady, comfortable routine. He awoke every day around dawn, took a bath and dressed in the breezy clothes of his companions, had a breakfast of fruits and flaky pastries, spent a few hours riding his horses down to the beach with Liam and Niall, where they held their own lunch and explored the coast, and then rode back to the estate for a quick nap before redressing and heading off to dinner, typically at a local nobleman's home.

Harry was quick to find out that this particular slice of the country was rife with royals and wealthy members of court, as Harry was paraded around to meet every man and woman of importance in the region, dignified noblemen with sun-dark skin who needed interpreters in order to communicate with Harry, Niall, and Liam. Harry was surprised by the sheer wealth so many of them displayed – low ranking viscounts with sprawling properties and extensive art collections, a baron with the largest ranch in the region, a creek splashing through the middle of his property in its movement toward the sea. It made Harry feel inconsequential in comparison – a Prince who had been relinquished just to stop the long-standing hemorrhaging of a kingdom, arriving with nothing and seemingly offering nothing in comparison to the beauty and splendor that his betrothed had already bestowed upon him.

For the first half of the second week, they dined and slept at Matty's family home. The Healy house was nestled about twenty miles uphill from Harry's own estate, a large estate that could easily be seen from miles around. Matty's parents had long stopped living together, his mother choosing to tend to this particular bit of property on her own while his father lived at court, but every inch of the estate was lovely and well-looked after, including the library filled with old, rare books, and the glass ballroom which spectacularly overlooked the coast. Matty noted that his mother entertained nearly every day, and she reminded Harry of his own in a way, a warm maternal figure and natural hostess with breezy blonde hair and a special smile for everyone she met. Enterprising noblemen came and went for every meal and the Duchess had a word and personal introduction for all of them, people eager to meet the Prince Consort and show off what few expressions of Harry's mother tongue they had managed to master. They ate outside every night on a long wooden table that groaned underneath the weight of expertly prepared food, and then sat on the grass while people gossiped and told stories or danced in the ballroom, everyone grinning and sweat-wet with the exertion. Harry didn't ever want to leave, could feel himself beginning to fall in love with the coast and its inhabitants, and Harry fell asleep every night curled up in bed with Liam and Niall like they used to do when they were children, homesickness aching in his bones even though he knew the same stars from his own kingdom continued to twinkle above him, music from Matty's guitar playing softly in his dreams.

 

Harry knew he was only supposed to be on the coast for two weeks and this was certainly not a significant amount of time with the wedding ceremony and all of its preparations rapidly approaching. That being said, Harry could not think of a period of his life where he was happier and more carefree, even as he practiced the language of his betrothed with every new person he encountered and made small little errors of etiquette every day. There was just something about the steady heat, the gorgeous blue skies and the satisfying crunch of sand underneath his sandals that made tension seep out of Harry's muscles. Life was simpler on this estate, slower and geared entirely towards pleasure and comfort. Harry took some satisfaction in knowing that if things with his betrothed at court went absolutely wrong, he could always come to the estate and live out his days as a simple sheep farmer, spending his time entertaining like-minded noblemen and riding his horses out on the beach.

 

Harry was extremely reluctant to embark on the tour of the countryside. He knew that Eleanor, Taylor and Matty would be joining him, all of whom he had grown very close to over the past fortnight, as well as Louis, naturally, but the idea of getting married and going to court still sent him into a shudder.

“It shouldn't,” Louis pointed out the night before they were to set out after Harry had quietly admitted his reservations after several glasses of wine. It was a still night, Niall having drank too much earlier in the day and taking an early rest, so Harry was only joined by Louis, Liam, Taylor, Matty and Eleanor, all of them sitting out on the patio in the least amount of clothes decency would allow. Bugs buzzed around them lazily while the moon hung high in the sky, large and imposing. Or perhaps it was Harry's melancholy that made the moon seem so menacing. “It's not like you've never been to court before.”

“But I grew up at that court,” Harry replied. “My parents were at that court, and until they married my sister off, I wasn't exactly the main focus of attention.”

“I always wondered about that, Your Highness,” Taylor interrupted, a peach in hand. “Your sister. You haven't mentioned her much.”

Harry lifted his shoulders and sighed, wishing he had his own bit of fruit so he could play with that and avoid this line of questioning. “There's not a whole lot to say, my Lady. She was married off when I was about twelve? Thirteen? I haven't seen her since.”

“But why was she married and sent away, Your Highness?” Eleanor asked. “Doesn't the throne run through your mother as well? So women _can_ rule, correct?”

Harry tipped his head in a nod. “It does. But there's still a premium on boys, I suppose, so they were eager to marry her off because her husband comes from a territory with more money and he offered an impressive dowry.”

It always came down to money, it seemed. How Harry's family had none of it, had squandered it away after years and years of poor choices and the endless pursuit of a war they had no hopes of winning. Nothing to support them but their name and their willingness to sell beautiful and well-groomed children for a few silver coins. Harry knew that his mother and father did their best, had provided a fairly comfortable childhood for Harry and Gemma nonetheless, but Harry still wondered how much his step-father was offered in exchange for Harry. His step-father would have leaped at any amount, and it seemed as though the kingdom of his betrothed would not have missed the sum at all.

“It's not like it's any different here, really,” Taylor quipped, turning her head to look at Eleanor. “Prince Zayn's still going to be the one to rule when the time comes, not Princess Doniya.”

“That's still up for debate,” Matty answered, darting forward to bite at the peach in Taylor's hand and speaking around a mouthful of fruit. “You could certainly make the argument that Princess Doniya has more of the temperament for rule, and Zayn would much rather be a diplomat or an academic than a King.”

“The Princess doesn't want the throne,” Eleanor said. “She's said as much a thousand times.”

“Does she not want to rule, or has she had it drilled into her head that women _don't_ rule?” Taylor asked with a raised eyebrow. “The Queen herself has said that a woman has no business on the throne, which is why she lets the King handle so much of the daily affairs. If Princess Doniya had been given more opportunity growing up – ”

“Well, there's nothing to be done about it now,” Louis chimed in, lazily examining his own cuticles as he spoke.

Taylor's eyes flashed. “Just because _you_ were skipped over – ”

“Here we go,” Matty mumbled under his breath.

“I honestly believe you are more concerned with my place in the line of succession than I am,” Louis retorted.

“What place?” Taylor hissed. “The only way you could weasel your way back into it is on your b– ”

“Taylor!” Matty interrupted. “Louis. _Please_ , both of you.”

Taylor seethed but stayed quiet, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at the ground with large, huffing breaths. Harry watched her for a few moments before turning to look at Louis, who was pursing his lips and staring at Matty. “You've finally managed to control your strumpet, I'm impressed,” Louis heckled. Harry was not particularly sympathetic to Louis' cause when Taylor stood, stomping over to Louis and slapping him soundly, the sound of her hand against his cheek almost resounding through the night. Matty leaped up and grabbed Taylor by the shoulders, steering her inside of the estate while she cursed Louis loudly and colorfully in a variety of languages. Louis rubbed at his cheek and watched them both go with a frown on his face.

“I would say that you deserved that,” Liam put in.

“Of course you would, you don't know what kind of vile rumors she's been spreading about me at court for the last two years,” Louis snapped. “I'm going to bed.” And with that, Louis turned and walked into the estate himself, leaving just Eleanor, Liam, and Harry on the patio. An awkward, heavy silence hung over the three of them for several minutes, Eleanor's countenance red with her embarrassment.

“I'm sorry about all of that, Your Highness,” Eleanor whispered softly.

“There's no need to apologize,” Harry answered just as delicately. “You haven't done anything wrong.”

“He's my fiance and she's my best friend, my only true friend at court. I know you are fond of both of them as well,” Eleanor replied, looking down at her hands as wetness pooled in the corner of her eyes. “It's hard enough for you to cope and adjust to life here without adding this stupid, petty drama on top of it.” Eleanor sighed, standing and brushing off her dress before shaking her shoulders back until she appeared slightly more composed. “I think I am going to retire. I will see you in the morning. Goodnight.” Eleanor curtsied and then made her way into the estate, Liam and Harry exchanging bewildered looks once the front door slammed closed.

“Do you have any idea what the rumors are that Louis was alluding to?” Harry asked lowly.

“No,” Liam acknowledged reluctantly. “Although I have consistently overheard people talking about him, but they always change the subject once they realize I'm listening in.”

“I suppose I could ask Louis directly.”

“Or ask Taylor,” Liam rejoined with a shrug. “She would most certainly write a treatise on all of his sins if you were to ask.”

Harry groaned, digging the palm of his hand into his eyes. “I could have Niall ask around. Everyone likes Niall.”

Liam laughed, leaning back against the chaise they were both seated on and huffing out a laugh. “Yes, Harry. That they do.”

Harry peeled his fingers from his face and turned to look at Liam. “How are you, Li? Are you all right?”

Liam turned to gaze at Harry, pouting slightly. “Yes, Haz. Why wouldn't I be?”

“We're two months away from our homeland,” Harry replied with a soft smile. “We'll never be at our own court again. We are about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime and we have no clue whatsoever what we are doing. Shall I continue?”

Liam shook his head softly before pulling Harry in close, running his fingers through Harry's curls and scratching blunt fingernails against the scalp the way Harry liked best. “You remember the story of the Knight-Errant?” Harry hummed in recognition, curling his arms around Liam's waist. “The wandering knight who traveled from kingdom to kingdom, fulfilling chivalric duties and pursuing courtly love. Those were always my favorite childhood tales. My favorite was the one where the Good Knight helped that young prince find his hatchling dragon. You remember, yes? The hatchling had fallen down the well and didn't realize yet that it could fly. I wanted so badly to be like the Knight-Errant, and now I am.” Liam grinned against the top of Harry's head, pressing soft lips to Harry's hairline. “Except instead of helping a prince find a dragon, I'm helping you find your betrothed and your way at court. I couldn't – there's no greater honor, Harry. This is what I've spent my whole life training to do and I'm prepared to do it at your side.”

“You are the biggest sap,” Harry said even as he could feel himself getting weepy.

“Yes, well, there are certainly worse things in the world I could be,” Liam huffed, and when they both laughed, it sent out sweet ringing noise through the night.

 

The next morning, Harry woke at dawn and had his now customary breakfast of fruits and pastries, but instead of heading to the coast with his beloved Abal, he was instructed to stand on the patio and stay out of the way while the servants packed up the carriages that would take him to his betrothed. Harry was a jittery mess, hands shaking as he watched his minders bring down chests and chests of clothing and packed baskets of food, sweat collecting on the back of his neck even though the heat was slightly milder today. Matty took pity on Harry and came to sit next to him, pulling Harry in against his chest and holding Harry close even as Harry's body continued to tremor.

“I'm not even sure why I'm so nervous,” Harry admitted at one point, wondering why he needed to be pressed against a man's strong chest in order to feel grounded.

“There's no shame in it, Your Highness,” Matty replied softly. “Your feelings are your own and you should never apologize for them. If it is any consolation, Prince Zayn is nervous, too.”

“He is?” Harry asked, turning his head to look up at the grin that had bloomed across Matty's face.

“Oh yes, very much so,” Matty answered. “Although he pretends to be very cool, detached. I suppose it's easier with a face like his. To pretend as though you don't care, as though you are above it all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Has nobody provided you with a rendering of Zayn?” Matty asked, his tone suddenly curious. “Do you have no sense of what he looks like?”

“No, I don't,” Harry replied with a small shrug. “Louis is not particularly forthcoming when I ask, either, and it has slipped my mind to ask anyone else.”

“Oh,” Matty said, pursing his lips and frowning. “That's not surprising about the Duke, I am constantly in awe of how he's entirely useless even at the best of times. But when Prince Zayn first came of age, they called him the Heartbreaker Prince. You know – because he's so ridiculously attractive.”

Harry barked out a laugh, pulling away from Matty and smirking. “Are you serious?”

“Very much so,” Matty answered. “Everyone says so.”

“Everyone who?”

“Everyone who encounters him,” Matty said. “He's gorgeous. They say a witch once came to visit at court, prepared to curse the young Prince for some wrong-doing the King had committed against her lands, but the minute she laid eyes on him, she had a change of heart, and instead blessed Prince Zayn and said that his beauty would one day bring unity and accord.”

Harry shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Come off it, Matty.”

“I'm not joking with you!” Matty grinned. “What would be the point in that?”

“To get my hopes up,” Harry said. “And then laugh when I am disappointed.”

“I could never be so cruel,” Matty replied. “It's not in my blood, Your Highness.”

“Tell me more about my betrothed then,” Harry said, curling back along Matty's side and wrinkling his nose when he realized both of them were slick with sweat. “Since nobody else will. Are you two close?”

The thing Harry most admired about Matty was his thoughtfulness. He always weighed his words before he spoke, little frown lines appearing between his eyes before he launched headfirst into conversation. His speech pattern was much rapider than Harry's, and he was extremely quick-witted, but he did take a moment to process before answering questions, and Harry appreciated his kindness. “I presume that he's closest to Duke Tomlinson, and he will always have a strong bond with Taylor, but I would say we are dear friends, yes. The King still takes care of most affairs, but the Prince has been entrusted with maintaining the treasury and some matters of foreign policy, and I have been assisting him on those fronts. We would not be able to do our work without a good deal of trust, and I love him dearly and believe he could easily say the same of me.” Matty tapped his fingers against Harry's arm and frowned a little in thought before adding, “Prince Zayn is not the most social royal. He does not like to entertain and consort the way Princess Doniya does, and he's not a natural politician like the Duke. The Prince is just quiet – he's an observer. He has his close friends and family and he has his pets and for him that is enough. But now he will have you, too.”

Harry snorted. “That means nothing. I'm – I'm not an entertainer or politician, either. I add absolutely nothing to this deal besides a smiling face.”

“Do not dare sell yourself short, Your Highness,” Matty answered, squeezing Harry tight against him. “Remember – I assist the Prince with maintaining our treasury and a good deal of foreign affairs. I was part of the committee who proposed the peace treaty between our warring kingdoms, and I sat in on the meetings after a bond of love was proposed to guarantee long-lasting concord. I also helped the King vet you to determine whether such a deal was worth our while. You will add a great deal of value to the throne, just you see.”

Harry opened his mouth, eager to ask more about those meetings and what was said in them and by whom, but Louis walked over and called them down, saying that the carriages were ready, so Harry had to hold his tongue for the moment. Eventually, he would forget about the conversation entirely.

 

Harry went on tours of his homeland pretty frequently as a young boy. He always enjoyed them – meeting people, young and old, rich and poor, and seeing the far reaches of the land that would one day become his own to rule. Gemma hated those tours, would complain about the long carriage rides and the stiff dresses she had to wear, constantly fussing with her hair, turning away from the people they met and begging to return to court. At the time, Harry couldn't understand how Gemma could be so indifferent to these little parades around the territory, but now, with the knowledge that his family never taught Gemma to see these lands as her own, and with Harry's own separation from the cold, northern reach of his kingdom, Harry could only feel a deep, aching sadness.

But Harry knew from the minute that the carriage doors slammed shut behind him that this tour of his betrothed's soil would be different. These were not the lands of his birth but he would indeed come to rule over them, was already half in love with the country that would become his adopted home. And yes, on one level this tour was a parade of sorts, a way to trot Harry out like a show dog in the long lead-up to the wedding, but Harry was smart, knew that he could also use this as an opportunity to win over the populous and further solidify his position at court. Harry was always good at using his charm, at talking to the peasants he met on his travels and lending a helpful ear, at playing in the streets with orphan children who would carry the tale of their fleeting encounter with royalty to the grave. Harry was not well-educated in the manipulation of young peace marriages, hadn't been intimately instructed in that delicate art form the way Gemma had, but he had picked up enough from his mother. “The people won't ever kill you if they love you,” she had whispered to Harry more than once. “No matter how poorly you might be running the country – they still won't kill you if they love you.”

The carriages used in Prince Zayn's lands were much airier than the ones Harry was accustomed to, with six wheels instead of four. Instead of being constructed almost entirely of wood, with padding all around the interior to assist with insulation, the one Harry rode in was constructed of both wood and iron and the top had a sheet of fabric thrown over it. The seats were covered with a plush leather, but it wasn't quite as roomy as the one Harry had ridden on in the march to the sea leading him to his betrothed's kingdom, there only being enough room for two of Harry's chests, Harry himself, and one companion. Liam, Niall, Matty, and Louis had all squabbled over who would sit with Harry until they agreed on some sort of rota, with Niall taking the first slot. For the first day Harry and Niall alternately played cards and watched the changing landscape by throwing back the linen top of the carriage, whistling softly as they traveled deep into the interior, coastal hills giving way to thicker forests that reminded Harry of his own homeland. They stopped in several villages along the way, Harry decamping from the carriage long enough to say a handful of greetings in the region's language to curious onlookers who hung back and whispered behind tanned hands, but all in all the day was uneventful, Harry's party spending the night at the home of one of Eleanor's relatives and waking early the next morning to continue on their journey.

As the days progressed and the party moved northwest, the heat broke a little, finally approaching something close to bearable. The party also began to encounter more and more villages, clustered on either side of main roads, men in dirty breeches and women with headscarves and loose shawls congregating along the paths and waving as the carriages traveled by. Harry eventually learned from Matty that most of the country's inhabitants lived deeper in the interior where the soil was richer and the weather was more tolerable, with a fairly sizable population also living along the foothills of the mountains much further north. Harry could completely understand why – the area they were traversing was absolutely beautiful, warm but without the wet humid air characteristic of the coast that made Harry want to sleep all day, the skyline rich with trees and the area boasting surprisingly well-plotted streets and roads. Even the territories Matty pointed out as the slums did not look as dirty and desolate as the poor regions of Harry's kingdom, the kids running after the carriages and kicking up dirt with hardened bare feet. Matty also explained that the capital, a sprawling city called Jinan, was also located in the interior, but they were taking a roundabout route to it as several of the roads leading into the city were blocked off with the wedding preparations still underway. Regardless, news of the Prince Consort's arrival was spreading rapidly, and Harry encountered greater and greater crowds every time he stepped out of his carriage, Harry's awe and wonder of the land and its inspiring people growing with every mile traveled.

 

They were about four days from the capital when the party of carriages pulled into a sprawling manor house located on the side of a riverbank. Compared to the beautiful estates dotting the coast, Harry was not particularly impressed, but he dutifully followed the rest of his companions inside of the house anyway. Taylor sidled up next to Harry, bringing her arm up to his shoulder and deftly working out a knot Harry didn't even realize had formed in his back. Harry whispered his thanks and Taylor smiled small and secretly, leaning in close to hum something soothing in Harry's ear.

“Do you know whose house we are in tonight?” Harry asked as they all stood about awkwardly in the entryway, Harry feeling dirty and tired in the expansive atrium.

“Just another Baron,” Taylor replied lowly with an eyeroll. “Lord Justin Bieber. He's feckless, as evidenced by the fact that he couldn't even be bothered to come greet us the minute we arrived, but he used to be dear friends with the Prince, so here we are.”

“Not particularly fond of him then, Taylor?”

“He's married to Lady Selena, who used to stay at court with us,” Taylor continued. “We were all close once – Prince Zayn, Louis Justin, Selena and myself.”

“You were once close to Louis?” Harry asked.

“Yes, well, we all have our deep personality flaws,” Taylor replied airily, startling a laugh out of Harry as the Lord and his wife finally came to greet them in the entryway, directing the party toward their dining room and offering apologies along the way.

 

Dinner that night was, to put it simply, a disaster.

Up until that point, everyone Harry had encountered during his travels were nothing but deeply considerate. None of the noblemen he encountered gave him a hard time as he struggled with the language barrier, at least to his face, and nobody laughed when he turned his baffled gaze onto the unfamiliar food and asked Louis for explanations as to what exactly he was eating. Everyone was nice and profoundly understanding, and Harry was extremely appreciative of the level of support they all showed him.

Harry should have known that eventually he would encounter someone who wasn't as sensitive and kind. Lord Justin was exactly that person.

To his credit, the Baron spent most of dinner talking to Louis, the two of them excitedly jabbering on in their mother tongue while the rest of the table indulged in quieter side conversations. Harry was thankfully seated at the furthest end of the table, Niall and Liam flanking his left while Matty and Taylor were to his right. The conversation turned toward the upcoming wedding, Matty and Taylor's softly accented versions of Harry's own natal tongue a soothing counterpart to the loud, abrasive exchange between Louis and the Baron.

“What do wedding ceremonies look like in your own country?” Taylor asked, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. “I'm not sure if anyone has told you, but royal weddings here are essentially a month-long affair. There is the wedding itself in the middle of Jinan's main plaza, and then dinner at the palace and the bedding ceremony, but then the couple ensconce in a castle of their choice for several weeks. The rest of the country essentially goes on holiday until they return to court. There are festivals all throughout the country.”

Harry turned to Liam and Niall, the three men exchanging bemused expressions before Harry answered. “No, royal weddings are not quite a lavish affair in my homeland. There was something like a week of celebration when my parents wed, but it was in the middle of the war and they did not want it to appear indecent.”

“That's a pity,” Taylor frowned. “Royal events should always be an extravaganza. Princess Doniya's wedding lasted something like two months, actually, and Princess Safaa and Princess Waliyha both had amazing betrothal ceremonies.”

“Did Prince Zayn not have a betrothal ceremony?” Liam asked. “I could have swore that someone mentioned that he was betrothed before.”

“He did,” Matty answered. “The general collective pretends as though it did not occur.”

“Why?” Niall inquired.

“Things went badly in every way they could have between the Prince and his betrothed,” Matty replied delicately.

“Did she die?” Harry asked.

“Some would tell you that death might have been preferable,” Taylor replied, her face falling as she spoke. “She was from a warrior tribe that the King conquered some time ago. They pay tribute to us and are allowed their autonomy for the most part. The tale goes that her family was attacked by direwolves and she was the lone survivor. The trauma drove her mad.”

“Direwolves,” Matty repeated, shaking his head sadly. “That story has always been ridiculous.”

“Well, would you rather I chose the other one?” Taylor hissed. “That she lost her mind and murdered her own family in cold blood?”

“The witchcraft induced version is the best one,” Matty said. “A nice compromise and perhaps the most plausible, considering we all know direwolves don't exist.”

“Yes, they do,” Harry interrupted, baffled. “I helped raise a litter when I was young.”

Matty and Taylor both turned to Harry with identical gobsmacked expressions. “You did not,” Matty said once he finally recovered.

“Yes,” Harry said. “Right, Liam?”

“He did have direwolves,” Liam answered dutifully. “They were actually fairly common in the far northern reaches of the kingdom. I had one, even. And Niall – didn't you say there was a pack by your monastery? Surely the populations have shrunk in recent years and people can't afford to tend to them the way they used to, but they aren't a myth.”

“Well,” Taylor said, turning to Matty with a small smirk. “What do you know?”

“This is the importance of inter-cultural exchanges,” Matty answered with a grin of his own. “Really? _Direwolves_. What do they look like?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer when there was a loud exclamation from the other end of the table. Harry could make out his own name and something that he was sure roughly translated to “whore.” His fears were confirmed when Taylor threw back her shoulders, reminding Harry so strongly of the direwolf cubs he once raised that Harry had to shake himself to stay in the moment.

“Do you want to repeat that so the Prince Consort can understand, my Lord?” Taylor asked, switching to the Common Tongue. “Or perhaps you can translate, Tomlinson? The Prince Consort is _your_ charge, after all.”

Justin and Louis both had the decency to look abashed, although Louis looked far more uncomfortable than Justin, who settled upon glowering at Taylor. “Trying to worm your way in with one Prince since the other won't have you?”

“Please, do try to use what is left of your mind to come up with a more original insult,” Taylor quipped.

“And please, my Lady, do not come into my house and disrespect me,” Justin retorted.

“If you want me to go to Prince Zayn with news of your insulting his betrothed, I will gladly do so,” Taylor answered. “You heard tell of what he was doing to people at court who maligned the Prince Consort, I'm sure. And then we will see how long this house remains yours.”

An awkward silence descended on the table, Harry turning and seeing that even the servants watching over dinner were standing along the walls of the room with pained, uncomfortable expressions. Harry cleared his throat and looked down at his plate, his appetite suddenly leaving him.

“Did you understand what they said down there, Niall?” Harry asked lowly, not even bothering with the Common Tongue.

“Yes,” Niall answered, glowering down at the Baron's end of the table.

“What did the Baron say?”

“Something to the effect of how your step-father got a pretty decent amount of silver considering you bring nothing to the throne but a reputation as a whore,” Niall recounted dully. “Before that Louis was talking about traveling here and how well you've come along in your studies considering how obvious it was you didn't want to be here initially.”

“And Louis just laughed at what the Baron said?” Harry asked, chewing on the thin skin lining his finger and stubbornly avoiding everyone else's gaze.

“No, he looked upset,” Liam answered. “I mean I didn't understand, but I could tell he looked annoyed. He still looks upset.”

“Right,” Harry said, feeling the beginnings of a migraine behind his eyes. “Let's retire.”

Harry stood suddenly, his chair scraping loudly against the tiled floor, and let an overeager and apologetic servant direct him to his chambers.

 

Harry was completely unsurprised to hear a knock on his door a few hours later, and even less surprised to realize that it was Louis standing on the threshold wearing his nightclothes, chewing his bottom lip furiously and looking distinctly agitated.

“Can I come in, Your Highness?” Louis asked, voice low and troubled.

“Yes, of course,” Harry replied, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and letting Louis walk into the room. Harry closed the door behind Louis and settled back against the bed, startling only slightly when Louis sat down next to him. Louis was wooden at Harry's side, limbs stiff, and Harry rolled his eyes and pulled Louis in against his chest, same as everyone else had been doing to him over the past few days. “I am upset with you,” Harry said, even as he brought his hands to brush Louis' fringe out of his eyes. “I do want you to know that.”

“I – I'm deeply sorry, Your Highness – ”

“Please don't do that,” Harry begged. “Switching to the formalities because you are upset – just. Please don't.”

“I'm sorry,” Louis repeated. His blue eyes seemed watery, and Harry felt at a loss over this display of emotion. Louis was always loud, aggressive, over the top. Extremely self-assured. The Louis settled next to him was none of those things, seemed suddenly younger and much more insecure. Harry was struck with the awareness that Louis' zealousness had to be some sort of mask, a way to hide how deeply words actually cut him. “I just. The Baron and I – we're not old friends. I only met him when I first came to court. But we used to be close. And he. He and the Prince had a very special kinship as well, even though it didn't last long. He's jealous, and I knew that. I shouldn't have let the topic go there.”

“ _Jealous_?” Harry asked, voice creeping upward with bewilderment. “Of what?”

“Of your wedding to the Prince,” Louis answered. “He's not the only one.”

“He's acting as though I asked for this,” Harry spat. “As though this was my _will_ – ”

“You're going to have to ignore people like that,” Louis replied, not unkindly. “People like the Baron. Because there are going to people at court who are going to tell you, both directly and indirectly, that you don't deserve to be there. That you don't deserve to be the Prince Consort – that their daughter or nephew or who have you should be on the throne and not you.”

Harry huffed and buried his face in his hands, taking several long, steadying breaths. When he looked up, Louis was staring at him and Harry found that he couldn't completely read the expression lying plainly across his countenance. “Please don't look at me like that, Louis.”

“I'm sorry,” Louis said, turning his gaze. “I don't know if it's any consolation, but Prince Zayn did institute a few policies before I left so that you would have the smoothest transition possible. So that you wouldn't have to deal with things like this.”

“Policies,” Harry repeated, remembering the words Taylor spoke to Justin over dinner. “Like what?”

“Like anyone who said something disagreeable about you in his presence would be sent home,” Louis grinned. “Made an example out of several very important people.”

Harry barked a laugh before looking up at the ceiling, his poor mood returning almost immediately as his mind raced with thoughts. “The Prince seems to have a much better handle on this situation than I do.”

Louis shook his head, a small, secretive smile playing across his face. “He really doesn't. He just – he's good with _doing_ things as a distraction.”

“How did he handle – well. All of this? I realize I never – I never bothered to ask.”

Louis blew out a long breath before turning his head slightly and running his fingers through his hair. “Not well, to be honest. He thinks it's some twisted form of retribution.”

“For what?”

Louis braced himself against the mattress, seemingly weighing with himself whether he wanted to answer Harry's question or not. Harry waited Louis out, watched closely as Louis exhaled slowly, scrunching up his face as he admitted, “For his friendship with me.”

Harry inhaled sharply. “Why would he be punished for _that_?”

Louis leveled Harry with a patronizing look. “You see how people talk about me, don't you? All you have to do is give Lady Swift a glass of wine and you see what comes pouring out of her mouth. They think I've tricked Prince Zayn into a close friendship, that I've enchanted him and am using him to stage a coup or some other ridiculousness. For some, it is not that large a leap to think that bringing in a new, charming young boy will push us apart, eventually force me out of court.” Louis chewed the inside of his cheek before sighing and adding softly, “You feel as though this arrangement was a betrayal and Prince Zayn does, too. I'm sure you can both bond over how much you individually sulked.”

“But _you_ don't think this arrangement was a punishment for my betrothed?” Harry questioned.

“I think it was intended to end a long and senseless war and it's done exactly that,” Louis answered forcefully. Harry had the distinct impression that he was trying to convince himself as much as he was attempting to persuade Harry. “You're both taking it far too personally.”

Harry nodded and let himself sink deeper against his bedsheets. Louis eventually left, pressing a soft kiss to Harry's temple before leaving Harry's quarters, but Harry still felt as though there was so much that his betrothed's circle of close friends were purposefully keeping him in the dark about.

 

With mere days separating Harry from the wedding and meeting his betrothed, Harry could feel himself becoming increasingly anxious and agitated. Harry knew that Louis had been right in that regard – that Harry was still living a fantasy where this entire journey to date was some prolonged vacation and not preparation for a marriage and future in a foreign land. But Harry found that he couldn't let go and allow himself to think about that cardinal fact, couldn't recognize that he was going to be married in several days time, and to a stranger nonetheless.

It was such a baffling notion in the first place – to pledge loyalty, undying devotion, and unrelenting love to someone he had never held a conversation with, or watched fall asleep, or held the hand of. Harry found himself watching Taylor and Matty in quiet moments, the way she laid her head on his shoulder and his soft responding smile, and wondered what that was like. To have the luxury of falling in love naturally. No theatrics, no forcing it. Not a political arrangement, boys exchanged for the lowering of weapons. Just letting love happen.

 

The day before they were to enter the capital for the wedding, Harry was feeling maudlin after a few pints of berry beer, stumbling to the room that had been appointed to him in some random Duke's home. Louis had volunteered to help Harry get to his quarters in one piece, and it was a good thing, considering how frequently Harry tripped on the stairs, mumbling apologies as Louis emitted long-suffering sighs and held onto Harry's arm. Louis steered Harry inside of his chambers, shutting the door softly and pushing Harry onto the mattress. It was hot, same as it always was, Harry's clothes feeling damp with sweat as Louis helped peel them off.

“Are you going to sleep nude again?” Louis asked, frowning when Harry pushed away the underclothes Louis grabbed from one of his chests.

“'Course,” Harry mumbled. “Gotta let my skin breathe.”

Louis rolled his eyes and turned to leave but Harry grabbed Louis' wrist, pulling him down onto the bed. Louis fell down beside Harry, skin scorching underneath Harry's palm, his eyes an almost unsettling blue this close to Harry's face. Harry had to fight down the urge to _do_ something, to push the moment the way he would have, back when he was younger and on steadier ground. It had been a bad habit – taking anyone who would have him, seeking cheap thrills in between his bedsheets. Harry was extremely fond of Louis, too, all things considered – was sure that if things were different, Harry would have no problem pursuing someone like him, but Harry could say the same about half of the company here – Matty, Taylor, even Eleanor. But Harry wasn't going to be marrying any of them.

“Can you tell me a story?” Harry asked, tongue heavy with his drunken malaise. “A story about my betrothed? I mean.” Harry took a deep breath, grasp tightening around Louis' thin wrist. “I mean a story about _Zayn_.”

Louis chuckled, peeling Harry's hand off his wrist and settling back against Harry's pillows. “What sort of story, Harry?”

Harry contemplated it for several moments, rolling over onto Louis' collarbone and humming when Louis brought his head to pet at Harry's hair. “I dunno. Like – a good one?”

Louis shook his head at Harry in disbelief. “What's a good story, Harry?”

“Has like, interesting backstory,” Harry mumbled. “Good characters. Naughty parts.”

“Okay, you are truly drunk,” Louis laughed, rolling his eyes again as he continued to scratch Harry's scalp. “I'm not telling you naughty stories about Prince Zayn. Especially not while you're lying here naked.”

“Why? Cuz he's your half-brother?” Harry continued. “I know he's told you things! All siblings do. At least, Gemma and I use to all the time before she was sent away. Even at my court, there were these siblings – a girl and a boy. Their family house burned down when they were nine and both of their parents died. They were taken in by their aunt or whatever, and they were weirdly close, knew everything there was to know about each other. There were rumors they were boffing each other, actually. Not that I'm saying you and Zayn are boffing each other – oh gods, that's so vile – ”

“What _are_ you actually trying to say?” Louis asked, going strangely tense against Harry's side. “I thought we were talking about storytelling.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed, pursing his lips. “Tell me a story.”

“You won't remember it in this state,” Louis replied. “It would be a waste of a good tale.”

“I want to meet him, you know,” Harry whispered, almost like it was a secret. Perhaps it was, at this point. Harry's burning desire to finally meet the man he had spent months hearing about. “Louis. I do. I want to meet him. I really want to meet him. I want to meet Prince Zayn.”

“Surprisingly, I heard you the first seventy times, yes,” Louis huffed.

“Louis,” Harry whined. “Please, Louis. Couldn't we – there are horses. I know there are horses downstairs. You said we were only fifteen miles from the capital. We could sneak out and you could find him and bring him outside. I could throw a rope and he could climb down it, even. I could meet him _now_. Why do I have to wait?”

“I don't fucking know,” Louis cursed. “Tradition? To build suspense? Certainly not for my sanity. You'll be around him for the rest of your life – what's one day more matter?”

“Because I want to meet him _now_ ,” Harry pushed. “I cannot keep waiting – I'm going to go mad. What if this is a love match? I need to be prepared. Please, Louis. I know you know where he is.”

“Of course I do,” Louis answered. “Doesn't mean I can or want to help you. For gods sake, I would much rather tell you a story you won't remember at this point.”

“ _Louis_.” Harry felt almost on the verge of tears. He realized then that he was definitely a little drunk. “I really want to meet him. Everyone's been talking him up for the past month – I can't keep on like this. I don't even know what he looks like – ”

“You will be attracted to him, if that's what all of this fuss is about,” Louis answered confidently. “And he'll be attracted to you, and you will be quick and easy friends, and there is absolutely nothing to worry about.”

“Louis – ”

“Goodnight, Your Highness,” Louis retorted, tone ringing with finality as he pushed himself off of Harry's bed. Harry sighed and flopped back against his sheets, mind still spinning with thoughts he didn't dare chase. He was asleep before the door snicked closed behind Louis.

 

The next morning as dawn broke and Harry awoke, a migraine firmly thundering on one side of his head, it was to the sudden, crushing knowledge that Harry would finally be meeting his betrothed. Harry was promptly sick in the bed pots and spent a half hour shaking on top of his sheets, wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Harry finally meet Zayn and immediately fall in love? Or will Zayn die of cholera? You have a 50% chance of being right.


	4. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Harry was more versed, he might have the words necessary to communicate exactly how he felt, but as it was, all he could do was live in the moment and try to take everything in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to my betas Fee and Emily. Also, happy birthday, Rue! This chapter is basically dedicated to you. And thank you to everyone who has been reading and prodding me to update on Tumblr and Twitter!

Deciding to get falling down drunk the night before his wedding was probably not Harry's wisest decision, but there wasn't much he could do about it once he finally rid his stomach of all of its contents, retching hot, thick bile as tears flowed unbidden down his cheeks. Once his body stopped shaking, Harry pulled on his bedclothes, his entire body aching, and threw open his door, wincing once he realized Matty was standing on the other side of it, looking simultaneously guilty for eavesdropping and sympathetic because of what he most certainly heard. Harry wondered how long Matty had been standing on the other side, pacing and arguing with himself, trying to determine whether he should intervene.

“Difficult morning, Your Highness?” Matty asked, voice thankfully soft and low.

“Unfortunately,” Harry answered with a sniff, standing back so Matty could enter the room. Matty had an ornate goblet in hand, gold and encrusted with thick, gaudy purple jewels arranged in something vaguely approximating a triangle. Harry frowned at it as he closed the door behind Matty, who took a seat on the edge of Harry's bed and offered the goblet to Harry.

“It will settle your stomach,” Matty replied with a soft shrug. “Ease your aching bones.”

“Thank you, Matty,” Harry whispered, taking the goblet and draining the liquid in long gulps. It was warm and thick, tasting vaguely of cinnamon. Harry felt mildly better the minute he finished it, stomach no longer roiling, handing the goblet back to Matty and lying horizontally across the bed, humming when Matty brought his hand to scratch at Harry's scalp.

“Are you nervous, Your Highness?” Matty asked. Harry grunted, burying his face into his sheets. “There's no reason to be, I assure you.”

“That's easy for you to say,” Harry snapped. “You're not hungover the day of your wedding to someone you've never met.”

Matty paused, frowning at Harry. Even his fingers stilled where they were massaging Harry's scalp and Harry whined, urging Matty to continue. “Would I ever mislead you, Your Highness?”

A part of Harry wondered if this was some sort of trick question. “No – ?”

“Then do not worry,” Matty said. “In the grand scheme of things, today is but another day.”

Harry groaned again, breathing in the smell of sweat and vomit that was clinging to his sheets. It was far from pleasant, and Harry shook as a sense of impending doom crushed down all around him. Everything, all of it – it was suddenly too much. Leaving his family and friends, leaving the veneer of comfort that a man's homeland provides, and disembarking on a foreign land, expected to immediately pick up an unfamiliar tongue before being summarily married off to a stranger. Harry should have confronted these fears earlier, not now, when his heartbeat felt too loud in his own ears, when his hands trembled and it felt as though his blood was running an unsteady course through his veins. Now was not a convenient time to have the ground fall into pieces underneath him.

Matty clucked his tongue sympathetically and collected Harry against his chest, rocking Harry softly and murmuring sweet nothings into his hair. Harry sniffled against Matty's collarbone, feeling tired and grimy, as Matty slowly got Harry to stand again, taking Harry out of his chamber and leading Harry down to another set of doors further down the hallway. The room they entered was smaller than Harry's but lavishly decorated with a canopy bed and several gold-trimmed chests. Taylor was standing to the far side of the room in front of a gilded mirror, simply dressed in traveling clothes but applying some sort of red tint to her lips. Taylor turned at the sound of the door opening and immediately rushed over, pushing Harry's hair out of his face.

“Did you give him the herbal tonic?” Taylor murmured, turning to Matty beseechingly.

“Yes, but I think he's having palpitations,” Matty replied. “I was hoping that you could help him get dressed instead of his servants?”

“Is that wise?” Taylor asked. “I don't want anyone to think – ”

“The Prince will understand,” Matty interrupted. “ _Please_ , love. Do this for me. I am going to rush back to his rooms and grab his traveling clothes and ask the Duke for one of his brews.”

Taylor rolled her eyes at the mention of Louis but nodded nonetheless, shooing Matty out of the room. Harry felt listless against Taylor's side but went with her as she guided him to the canopy bed, plumping up the pillows behind Harry and running across the room to grab a tray of food that had been sitting on one of the stacks of drawers. Harry sighed at the smell of familiar flat bread and the spread of fruits, smiling when Taylor began assembling a small plate for him.

“Matty and I were having breakfast together when he decided to check on you,” Taylor explained, handing Harry a small tear of bread.

“Matty is very considerate,” Harry replied, feeling a little better as he chewed on the food. Piece by piece he was feeling human again.

“That he is,” Taylor answered with a fond smile.

“I'm sorry to worry you both,” Harry mumbled. “I – I'm not sure what came over me.”

“It is our duty to worry, Your Highness,” Taylor said. “You drank quite a bit last night, and we should have stopped you. But we were all having a good time – it's no matter. After a sip of the Duke's brew, you shall be set for the day.”

“What's in Louis' brew?”

Taylor shrugged, handing Harry a slice of cantaloupe. “I have never really asked. Something unsavory and illegal, knowing him. But it will give you strength and soothe your nerves. And then we can head down to Jinan.”

“What will happen today?” Harry asked. “You know – at the wedding? Is there anything I need to know?”

Taylor hummed, scrunching her face up as she ate a slice of melon. “Matty or the Duke should explain it to you. We have not had a marriage of two male royals in at least a lifetime, so I do not know all of the details. I anticipate it will be straightforward enough. Some blessings, exchange rings, then head back to the palace.”

“Will I meet my betrothed beforehand?”

Taylor shook her head sadly. “I do not think so, Your Highness.”

Harry pouted as Matty entered the room again, Louis, Niall, and Liam all trailing behind him. Niall took one look at Harry's pale face and made a straight line towards the bed, curling up on the mattress behind Harry and pulling Harry flush against his chest.

“I'm all right, Niall,” Harry said, smiling around abashedly at everyone else assembled in the room.

“Obviously you're not,” Niall answered. “Sorry I've been so distracted during this trip. I should have been watching you last night.”

Harry replied, “I just drank too much. I'll be fine.”

“You're not fine – you're stressed,” Louis answered with a roll of his eyes that made Harry feel all of ten years old. “We all told you to take it easy. It's enough of an adjustment with the weather and the new food. You do not need to add anxiety and palpitations on top of that.”

“Yes, well – ”

“Yes, well, _nothing_ ,” Louis interrupted, his tone surprisingly final. Harry shut his mouth with a snap and resigned himself to sulking. “Now, Taylor is going to help you get dressed in some traveling clothes and then I am going to give you some of my homemade brew. You will drink that and we will prepare to depart for Jinan. It's still not much after daybreak, so you can rest in the carriages. I anticipate that we will get there into the capital with time to spare for your ceremonial bath and the actual wedding.” Louis turned to Matty, an easy smirk on his face. “How's that for an itinerary, eh?”

“The Duke is correct,” Matty answered with a steady smile of his own. “Please, finish eating whatever your stomach can handle, and then we will prepare for the day's festivities. Does this all sound agreeable to you, Your Highness?”

“Yes, _fine_ ,” Harry answered with a pout, grabbing the rest of the flat bread and letting Taylor guide him out of the room to get dressed.

 

Louis' brew was thick and a rather disturbingly bright yellow color, almost the shade of daisies, tasting like icy nothingness once Harry finally talked himself into drinking it. Louis explained as Harry forced it down that it had a bit of a sedative quality to it, so they were probably only something like a quarter mile out from the estate that had so graciously hosted them before Harry fell asleep, head banging against the side of the carriage as he rested. Harry knew from an earlier overheard conversation between Liam and Louis that they were taking a discrete back road into the capital and the royal family's palace there, a formidable but elegant structure nicknamed Mishael. Harry's official procession into the capital would then occur from the palace, leading through town and into the main square, where the wedding would occur in front of all those assembled there.

Liam woke Harry up once they arrived at the palace and Harry felt decidedly less unsettled and miserable now that the brew had taken its intended effect. The carriage was parked on the back grounds of Mishael, and Harry hardly had time to gape at the airy, open structure, full of wide arches and beautiful tile work, before he was hurried through the palace doors and taken to an eastward facing room where Harry could already hear the roars of the crowds amassing in the main square.

There were two servants in the room waiting for Harry and they shut the windows upon his arrival, making the room disturbingly quiet, and gestured for Harry to strip. He removed his traveling clothes with bumbling fingers, standing stark nude in front of the servants before they guided him through to another room, pointing to a large wooden tub and tapping their feet while Harry made his way into it. Once Harry was comfortably seated on a bench within the tub, the servants dunk Harry underneath the warm water, laughing at his squawking and scrubbing the day's worth of grime from his skin with rough loofahs. They were much gentler when it came to Harry's hair, running their fingers through his locks with a soap that smelled of jasmine flowers before then turning to Harry's mouth, one of the servants holding his lips apart while the other ran across his teeth with a horse hair brush. It was perhaps the most thorough bath of Harry's life, Harry feeling both intensely clean and extremely embarrassed by the end of it.

One of the servants helped Harry dry off with a plush, warm towel while the other attempted to tame his hair, the woman eventually giving up and letting Harry tend to his curls on his own. Harry was then led back to the first room where Louis and Liam were both waiting for him, Liam standing guard at the door while Louis smiled at Harry blithely and gestured toward an assortment of clothes laid out across a table.

“These are the wedding clothes you were measured for all those weeks ago,” Louis explained, pointing to green robes draped across the tabletop. Harry walked over and touched them, surprised to find the fabric was soft and light, silky, thin and cool. The edges were trimmed in silver, and along the back, dancing across both shoulders, was an ornate design that Harry recognized with a start were renderings of direwolf cubs. “Matty made some sort of offhand comment saying that you have some of those beasts in your homeland?” Louis said, smiling once he noticed Harry's elated expression. “I wrote to Prince Zayn about it, thought it was a nice little tidbit he would find amusing. And now here we are.”

“Now here we are,” Harry breathed. “So the direwolves – ”

“They were added on within the last few days, I presume,” Louis answered. “I can only wonder what sort of strings the Prince pulled to make that happen, the sentimental bastard.”

“They're beautiful,” Harry said, shaking his head slightly, marveling once again at how thoughtful his betrothed had shown himself to be. All of Prince Zayn's gifts demonstrated a level of consideration Harry could only hope to match in marriage.

“There are also, of course, your underclothes, and then breeches and a chemise here,” Louis said, pointing to each of the other articles of clothing in turn. “Your boots are against the door there. You see them? There's a bit of gold in each one for good luck. The story goes that during the last royal wedding between two princes, Prince Faiz got so antsy waiting to see his beloved that he bribed one of the guards with some gold he had stashed away in his shoes. Figured it was particularly appropriate today,” Louis added with a wink. “Liam and I will leave you to get dressed.”

“Thank you,” Harry said quietly, eyes hardly leaving his wedding robes, mind racing with thoughts of his betrothed. Louis and Liam closed the door behind them with a quiet snick.

 

After Harry was fully dressed, he was directed to a miniscule room directly facing the main square. Harry could clearly hear the cheers and chatters of the waiting crowds, but the room itself was sparsely decorated and surprisingly dim, the walls made of dark wooden paneling with only small slits for windows. Pushed across from the door was a plush red chair and wooden table, the top of which was laden with old books. Without anything else to amuse himself with, Harry sat down delicately on the chair, clothing feeling stiff with the starch Harry witnessed the servants pouring onto the breeches. The books were all thankfully in the Common Tongue, so Harry pulled one from the top, humming to himself once he realized it was a book of prayers. Harry attempted to flip through it listlessly, but adrenaline kept his hands from moving steadily.

Harry had had the distinct feeling ever since he had entered the room that he was not alone, and the longer he tried to ignore the nagging urge and focus in on the prayers intended to clear his mind and find some semblance of inner tranquility, the louder and more insistent his thoughts became. Harry cursed to himself, tossing the book back atop the rest of the pile before standing once more and moving in front of the small slits of light drifting into the room.

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath before murmuring, “Are you here? _Caroline_ , are you here?”

When Harry opened his eyes again, Caroline was sitting in the chair Harry had just vacated, seductively adorn in a fitted red dress that would have made Harry's mother gasp, lips a rich berry color as she smiled at Harry. “I'm always here, love,” Caroline said. “Did you require anything of me?”

“The protection spell,” Harry replied, licking his own lips as his eyes skittered across Caroline's face. She looked better than she had in Harry's room weeks ago, skin tanner and her face plumper. She almost looked like the young, carefree girl Harry remembered from his youth. “I know witches have a spell of protection.”

“And what will you give me?” Caroline asked, cocking her head to the side and measuring Harry with sharp, calculating eyes.

“What do you _want_?”

Caroline smiled, her teeth almost shimmering in the weak light of the room. “You would let me pick, love?” Caroline crooned, standing and grabbing Harry's chin in her hand. Harry almost forgot how slight and petite Caroline was, all things considered, but a wild power radiated underneath her fingertips nonetheless. “You are so foolish, Prince Consort.”

“You could stay at my court,” Harry said recklessly. He was not sure what was compelling his tongue to be so free. Perhaps it was Caroline herself. “You could – I could give you property. Houses. Wealth, privilege. Servants.”

“I don't want any of those silly material things,” Caroline replied. “They have no meaning to me. The only thing I have ever wanted is _you_.”

“Is that what you want now?” Harry gulped.

“And always,” Caroline said easily. “But I'm not going to take you. It would disrupt destiny.”

“Destiny,” Harry repeated tonelessly.

“I would brush up on my history if I were you,” Caroline answered in a sweet sing-song before letting go of Harry's chin with a smirk. “I remember the hard time you used to give your tutors. 'Caroline, why are they making me study such silly things? Dragons and the like. And that Iron Throne. We all know it's a myth – know that we aren't fighting this war over that ugly, old thing.'” Caroline tsked, still grinning. “Didn't your friend Matty think direwolves were an old wives' tale? And the story goes that your betrothed had his own encounter with a witch. That she blessed him. That he is predestined for greatness.”

Harry blinked just long enough to scrunch his face up into a scowl, and in that millisecond, when Harry opened his eyes once more, the witch was gone.

Harry groaned to himself, murmuring, “Well, that was utterly pointless.” At least Harry no longer felt the slick, uneasy sense that accompanied being watched without his permission – it was clear from the quietude of the room now that Harry was alone. Harry sighed, pacing the length of the room for a few moments before turning and striding back across it. Harry rasped his knuckles against the shut door, suddenly struck with a bit of inspiration, courtesy of one Louis Tomlinson.

The guard on the other side of the door opened it, face screwed up in bewilderment. “Yes, Your Highness?”

“How much longer do I have to wait here?” Harry asked, surprising himself when the words came out easily in his betrothed's tongue. “I am growing impatient.”

“It shall not be much longer until the ceremony,” the guard said, exchanging a glance with another servant standing further down the hallway. “We will let you know when you are needed.”

“I am fatigued and anxious,” Harry replied. “Are you sure that it will not be much longer?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” the guard answered.

“How much longer?”

The guard shrugged. “Half an hour at the very latest, Your Highness. They are just assembling the soldiers for your protection now.”

Harry nodded, breathing in sharply. “Is my betrothed also in this castle?”

The guard shared another look with his companion. “Yes, he is, Your Highness.”

There was a beat of silence where Harry looked at the man expectantly. “Well, can I see him?”

“You will see him at the ceremony, Your Highness.”

Harry didn't stomp his feet, but it was close thing. “But why can't I see him _now_?”

“Your Highness – ”

“What do you want?” Harry interrupted. “What will it take for you to bring me to him? I have gold in my boots.”

The guard looked to be on the verge of laughing in Harry's face. “Please, Your Highness – ”

“This is the dumbest tradition I have ever encountered,” Harry whined. “How come he did not greet me upon my arrival? That's how they do it elsewhere – I know because I witnessed my sister's betrothal. I didn't even get a miniature portrait of Prince Zayn before disembarking. All I received was my snake ring and a summons. How come you are not accepting my bribe when they gave me gold in my shoes just for that reason?”

“Your Highness, there was simply not enough time to procure a miniature for these purposes,” the guard replied soothingly. “And I presume that you were not told the entire story of the Two Love-Struck Princes, because Prince Faiz was not able to successfully bribe his guards, either. That's the entire point of the story, essentially. But I can assure you, just as it was for Prince Faiz, your wedding will be well worth the wait.”

Harry groaned and slumped against the threshold. “These breeches are too tight and uncomfortable. I'm hot and I'm hungry and this morning my stomach hurt. Nobody understands me when I speak.”

“I can understand you perfectly, Your Highness,” the guard said. “You will be eating directly following the ceremony. A feast featuring food from your own homeland. The Prince selected every course. And very soon you will never have to wear those breeches again.”

“The Prince is going to think me spoiled and stupid,” Harry continued pitifully. “I didn't bring him any gifts. I don't even know if my step-father sent over any animals. I am useless.”

“Your Highness, you are going to be _fine_ ,” the guard answered, rightfully baffled by the entire conversation he was holding with Harry. “You have my word. _Please_. Just go and bow your head, meditate for a while. That's a good lad.”

Harry nodded, closing the door behind him and thudding his head against the wood. He knew he was probably ruining his hair, but it didn't stop him.

 

The wedding was – well. There wasn't even a word to describe it, nor a concise statement that would easily sum up the experience. It was just one of those moments in life that represent a fundamental rupture between everything that came before it and everything that would follow afterward. Intrinsically important, but something even _more_ than that. If Harry was more versed, he might have the words necessary to communicate exactly how he felt, but as it was, all he could do was live in the moment and try to take everything in, remain grounded and not let himself float over the day's events.

Liam and Louis eventually collected him from the small, dark room, and with an assemblage of men Louis pointed out as soldiers and noblemen, Harry was led back out of the palace and directed toward an open-top horse-drawn carriage. The sky was a clear, cloudless blue, and while it was far warmer than anything Harry was accustomed to in his own homeland, Harry recognized that it was a fairly mild day where this particular kingdom was considered. The carriage before Harry was constructed almost entirely out of steel, the backs lined with leather and then padded over with fluffy pillows, but the doors were what really caught Harry's eye. The framing of the carriage itself was a fairly standard black, but the doors were painted a deep, rich purple. The Malik family insignia – a silver female dragon protecting its egg – was etched along the side. Harry only distantly realized that this insignia would soon be his own, as well.

Liam opened the carriage door while another servant grabbed a small footstool for Harry to use to climb inside. Harry did so, settling against the back of the carriage and relaxing into the cushions, drumming his fingers along the frame. Louis turned to follow Harry but instead began to curse, patting at his own robes more than a little frantically.

“Louis,” Liam said tonelessly. “Did you forget the crown?”

“No,” Louis snapped, still patting at his clothing. “It's just – it's right here.”

“Louis,” Liam repeated. “Is it still inside of the waiting room?”

“It's – no. It's right here, in my – okay, yes, fuck, yes it is,” Louis answered. “Kevin, can you run and fetch Prince Harry's crown for me?”

One of the soldiers standing at attention nodded, darting back into the palace so quickly Harry would've swore the man kicked up dust. Liam turned and glared at Louis, looking distinctly unimpressed. “Wasn't that your sole task for the day?” Liam remarked. “I'm almost certain Matty said so – said that you just had to make sure the Prince Consort received his crown and arrived in one piece.”

“I do not appreciate your sass, thank you,” Louis retorted.

“Where is Matty?” Harry asked as he looked around at all of the men staring at him on the palace grounds. “And Niall?”

“The King sent Niall and Matty to serve Prince Zayn and assist him in preparing for the ceremony,” Louis answered with a short shrug. “I assumed Niall would provide Prince Zayn with some levity. Everyone likes him, so.”

“That they do,” Harry answered as the soldier, Kevin, returned to the courtyard, a silver crown in hand. It was thin and delicately constructed, not particularly elaborate or gaudy like the ones Harry was forced to wear during special events back home, the metal molded into a series of triangular points. Harry did not notice the designs etched into the silver until the sunlight struck it, Harry's eyes bulging as he took in the interlocking circular inscriptions. Harry wanted to run his fingers along the designs, commit the grooves and lines to memory, already desperate to know what they represented.

“Budge over, will you, love?” Louis asked, climbing into the carriage himself and gesturing for Harry to move into the middle of it, Liam and Louis sitting back against the cushions and flanking him on either side. Louis brushed imagined dust off the crown with his robe while Liam tsked and bristled at Harry's side. Louis then held the crown up to the light, smiling serenely as it shone in the sun, and Harry bowed his head down so that Louis could place the metalwork on his head. Louis tucked curls out of the way, fiddling with Harry's hair until he was satisfied, leaning against the back of the carriage with a smug smile. “There you are, Your Highness.”

“Do I look smart?” Harry asked, smirking up at Louis.

“Dashing,” Liam answered.

“The smartest,” Louis rejoined.

Harry nodded to himself, taking a deep breath and burying his hands underneath his robes. Kevin closed the door to the carriage behind them and smiled at Harry. “Are you ready, Your Highness?”

“Readier than I might ever be,” Harry answered with a wan purse of lips, and Kevin nodded, walking to the front of the carriage and jumping up to sit at the head. Another set of men walked over with two purebred Arabian horses, the horses appearing out of nowhere as far as Harry was concerned, hitching the animals up to the carriage in record time and handing the reigns to Kevin, who thanked the men heartily.

The rest of the soldiers then stood at attention, launching into a song Harry had never heard and couldn't entirely understand, the rhythm itself completely unfamiliar. Up until that point, the sound of the crowd seemed to be a sort of dull buzz, comfortable background noise that Harry had become accustomed to, but like some sort of lever, the populous roared, the sheer noise level seemingly tripling. Harry heard a series of trumpets from somewhere on the other side of the palace gates and gripped at his thighs once Kevin lurched the carriage into motion, the horses settling into a hearty trot as they followed a path that looped around the side of the palace. Waiting at the front of the property was another carriage, also open to the air and painted a deep purple. Three people sat inside, all wearing crowns.

“That's the King,” Louis mumbled. “King Yaser, the Queen, and the youngest daughter, Princess Safaa.”

Harry hardly had a moment to make out their delicate features, the tan skin and proud constitution of the King, before the royal carriage launched into motion, horses kicking up gravel as the carriages followed the long boulevard separating the palace from the capital surrounding it. Iron gates groaned into motion, the royal carriage traveling through it first, followed by Harry's, soldiers racing on horseback to flank the sides and lead the way into town. People were congregated in thick crowds on either side of the road, held back by soldiers and several waist-high barriers, cheering and waving purple banners with the royal insignia stitched into the fabric. Harry was immediately struck by how healthy and _happy_ the townspeople appeared – women with clean, plump faces, men with hearty bellies and thick beards, and children who ducked underneath the barriers and ran after the back of the carriage, pieces of candy in hand as they chanted Harry's name.

Hell, _everyone_ was chanting Harry's name, and it was utterly bizarre, the enthusiasm and joy with which the syllables flowed off these strangers' tongues. Harry slipped into his Prince persona the minute they set out onto the road, the charming people-pleaser, waving and smiling with a practiced ease, but a small part of Harry's brain continued to work furiously – wondering how it was that these people came to love him so quickly considering that just six months ago their lands were still locked in a desperate, hopeless war, wondering what this wedding ceremony was going to be like, wondering what _Prince Zayn_ would be like.

The procession was simultaneously fast and slow. Harry knew that it was only something like a mile to the main square but they had devolved into a fairly slow trot, giving the people plenty of time to get a good gawk at Harry or throw something into the carriage if they were feeling particularly ambitious. Liam was stiff at Harry's side, assessing the masses with keen eyes, fingers flexing by the blade that Harry knew he kept secured against his hip, but Louis also seemed enamored by the sheer size of the crowds, murmuring things like, “This is remarkable, even for a royal wedding,” or “I don't think I've ever seen the capital so full.” Louis kept looking over at Harry and shaking his head imperceptibly, vibrating in his seat with excitement.

 

Harry's arm and wrist hurt by the time they reached what Harry assumed was the main square, a spacious open plaza surrounded by buildings that Louis muttered belonged to the local university. The buildings all seemed to be made of the same burnt orange material, a warm color that made Harry think of building vases with his mother at their beach house, the one by the cold sea shore that was nothing like the warm, breezy property Harry's betrothed had procured for him. The crowds were controlled around either side of a long purple carpet which led to a large canopied structure, the entire top of which was strewn over with flowers of every color and variety. Noblemen and women were seated underneath it, women lazily fanning themselves with dainty hands, but from Harry's perspective where the carriage came to a slow stop, Harry was unable to see any figure that he could safely assume was the Prince.

The King, Queen, and Princess Safaa were brought down from their carriage to the cheers and chants of the assembled crowds, the Queen and the Princess making their way down the aisle while the King turned and walked over to Harry's carriage. The King opened the door himself to an even greater roar, smiling mysteriously at Harry as he helped assemble the stool that would bring Harry down from his seat. Liam exited first, ever the conscientious bodyguard, and both Liam and the King helped Harry descend, Louis leaping from the carriage last and grinning at the King like the sneaky little shit he was. The King did his best to refrain from rolling his eyes but he did share a small, conspiratorial smile with Louis before turning his gaze to Harry.

The King was tall with broad shoulders and thick black hair, and although he certainly struck an imposing figure, there was also something about him that seemed familiar, fatherly. The King bowed before Harry, and Harry returned the gesture before the King brought both hands to rest upon Harry's face, pressing a soft kiss to Harry's forehead.

“We welcome you to Jinan,” the King said softly. Harry was surprised he could even hear the King over the roars of the crowd, but there was something about the man's presence that almost demanded that he be heard. Harry hadn't learned much about King Yaser when he was growing up, only knew that his own father considered the man to be a worthy adversary and not one to be underestimated. Considering the ferocity with which Harry's father went into battle, Harry knew that this in itself spoke tremendous volumes about King Yaser's abilities as a ruler. The happiness of his people, the dizzy elation with which they chanted the King's name and sang in celebration during this time, told Harry everything else he needed to know. The King was well-regarded, loved by his subjects. “We are honored that you have agreed to take my son's hand.”

“I am honored to take a position at your son's side,” Harry answered, hoping that his pronunciation of the unfamiliar language impressed his soon-to-be father-in-law. “And forever grateful to receive a place of love and privilege within your kingdom.”

The King clapped Harry on the shoulder and placed another kiss along Harry's hairline before walking down the carpeted aisle, taking a seat beside his wife and daughter underneath the canopy. There were two other girls seated to Princess Safaa's side, both of them beautiful with long, ebony hair and glittering crowns sitting atop their heads. Harry assumed they must be Princess Waliyha and Princess Doniya. One of them was holding hands with a tall, dark-skinned man with high cheekbones who was also donning a crown, although it was simple, made out of silver just like Harry's. Harry racked his brain trying to remember whether anyone said that Princess Doniya was married, and could not recall anything, although it would make sense. It was just strange to think Harry was not the only Prince Consort in the kingdom.

The raucous cheers of the crowd turned to a softer murmur the moment the King sat down at his place at the head of the aisle. The trumpets that had been playing since Harry left the palace faded into nothingness, and a softer tinkling music began to be played in its place. Louis and Liam arranged themselves on either of Harry's side and Louis prodded Harry forward, mumbling, “Walk.”

Whenever Harry had tried to ask the others about what was expected of him during the wedding, everyone had simply shrugged and assured Harry that he would figure it out once he arrived there. And as Harry walked down the aisle, his feet naturally falling into the delicate rhythm being played around him, Harry did feel as though he was slipping into some sort of dream, his body operating without any conscious input on his part. The carriage seemed surprisingly far away from the canopy in the center of the main plaza now that all eyes were on him, but the only thing Harry wanted to see was Prince Zayn, and Harry still couldn't make him out. All Harry could see were flowers, bunches and bunches of flowers, and some sort of religious man standing at the back of the canopy, dressed simply in a cotton sheath.

It was only once Harry entered underneath the canopy himself, hands shaking from how nervous and sick to his stomach he was, that Harry finally saw Prince Zayn. The other man stood from where he had been perched against a bench to the side, almost as though he didn't _want_ to be seen, body all sharp lines and angles, and Harry actually lost his footing for a moment, tumbling into Louis' side, who cursed and manhandled Harry into a vaguely upright position while a blush bloomed across Harry's cheeks.

Matty's story – the one in which a young Prince Zayn was so beautiful a witch didn't dare hurt him – Harry had just assumed it was a dumb little tale intended to sooth his nerves. There had been some about Harry as a youth as well – his mother liked to tell one where Harry somehow charmed a tutor into receiving sweets before and after every lesson. Such tales didn't necessarily mean anything, weren't always even true, and Harry hadn't ever contemplated that this story about Prince Zayn might have some validity to it. But the minute Harry laid eyes on the Prince, Harry knew that it was.

Prince Zayn was _that_ earth-shatteringly beautiful.

His skin was tan, just like his father's. The same warm, comforting color of the sun's afternoon rays. Soft, delicate features like his mother. The same crinkle around his eyes as he smiled. The same dark hair as his sisters and the same easy pride. But everything else about him was utterly unique. A warmth that radiated outwards, made Harry feel instantly at ease. Gorgeous hazel eyes and plump pink lips. He was dressed in purple and silver, the colors of his people, and the crown that sat atop his head was as delicate as the one Harry donned, but Harry felt plebeian in comparison. Harry was not used to feeling decidedly average, but Harry found he did not mind, not if it meant he could stare unabashedly at the Prince all day.

It almost felt like the world shifted underneath Harry's feet, but instead of going free-falling, instead of losing his footing again and crashing into others for support, Harry found himself on solid ground. Calm, at ease. Like Harry had been lost at sea but finally emerged from underwater to see a rescuing boat in the distance. Every worry, every concern – they all suddenly seemed meaningless. Silly, frivolous. A part of Harry felt stupid thinking so, but Harry knew immediately, unequivocally, as violently as a thunderstorm, that he was already in love with Prince Zayn, and he was perfectly all right with the realization, was actually more than a little excited.

Harry couldn't read the expression on Prince Zayn's face, but he was smiling. Matty had said it himself – the Prince had vetted Harry, had sent him gifts and already proclaimed his love for Harry in small, tiny ways that spoke loud volumes. Even if it was all hollow words, Harry would guarantee that the Prince would gaze upon Harry with fond eyes in no time.

Harry stood at Prince Zayn's side, their shoulders brushing, and Harry spent the entire ceremony trying not to scream in excitement directly into Prince Zayn's face. Instead, Harry contented himself with staring at his betrothed's profile and grinning whenever Prince Zayn caught him looking. It was a silly game, one that Prince Zayn didn't seem to mind playing, if the color dancing across his own cheeks was any indication. Harry could vaguely hear some of the noblemen mocking their obviousness, smiles hidden behind fans and manicured hands, but Harry didn't care. Prince Zayn was simply ethereal. Harry wanted nothing more than to touch his skin, to ask questions, to commit everything about this man to memory – no detail was too trivial. If playing a child's game was all that he was allowed for the time being, then so be it.

Harry didn't even realize that the ceremony was coming to a close until Prince Zayn laughed at Harry's obliviousness, nudging Harry with his shoulder and slipping a new ring onto Harry's left hand. Harry floundered for a minute, vaguely remembering that he was supposed to give the Prince something, too, before Louis took pity upon Harry again, dropping the ring intended for Prince Zayn into Harry's palm. Harry turned to Prince Zayn, face absolutely on fire, and awkwardly jammed the simple band onto the Prince's finger. They exchanged stiff kisses on each other's cheeks and turned to face the crowds, shoulders still touching, and that was it. Harry was married, and he was hopelessly enamored with the stranger that was his husband.

 

Harry remembered hearing something about dinner, but he hadn't been expecting all of _this._ Carriages had taken the newlyweds back to the castle, neither of them really saying anything to each other as they were both busy either waving to the crowds or staring at each other in a strange mixture of shock and awe. Harry was taken to a room to change again, thankfully into breeches that weren't scratching his legs with every movement, and then Harry and the Prince were jammed together once more and told to stay and wait behind heavy, wooden doors for their official introduction at court as newlyweds.

Harry stared around the dining hall in disbelief once the announcement was finally made, taking in the beautiful stained glass windows, rows upon rows of long, wooden tables, and the high ceiling painted with what Harry assumed was the kingdom's creation story. Harry and Prince Zayn were seated in the middle of the royal family's table and Harry hardly had enough time to even breathe and take in everything before the meal began. Course after course of dishes were placed before Harry, many of it familiar from Harry's homeland, and Harry was so happy that he felt he could cry. So he did, just a little bit, ducking his head as he dabbed at his eyes with a napkin. He didn't think anyone noticed.

Conversation flurried around Harry, but he had a hard time following the majority of it. Prince Zayn was similarly quiet, either focusing in on other people or gazing off into the distance, but Harry sensed that might be due to an introspective personality and not because he wanted to slowly kill Harry with the gorgeous faces he made as he brooded. The King, who was seated to Prince Zayn's right, engaged Harry in conversation quite a bit, willing to repeat words and gesticulate with his hands to help convey meaning, and the Queen smiled at Harry and told him which foods he was expected to eat with his hands, as Harry had a habit of taking up his knife and poking at various things until someone told him it was all right to eat it with a fork. Harry couldn't understand the Princesses very well – as a rule, they all seemed to speak _extremely_ fast – but they all smiled and laughed at Harry a lot, which Harry hoped meant they liked him. Every so often, Harry caught the eyes of his friends from across the hall, and they all raised thumbs up at him or smiled, so Harry felt like he was doing all right.

Harry was eating some sort of sweet dessert dish when there was a huge ruckus from outside of the dining hall. It was well after sunset and the servants had long begun lighting lanterns around the spacious room. Harry assumed the noise was due to the long day of drinking finally showing its effects. The commotion seemed to crescendo and then men burst into the hall carrying bedsheets. Harry noticed that Louis and Matty were amongst them, both of them looking smug and self-satisfied.

“No,” Harry said. “No, no, no, no. No.”

The men were all singing something that sounded decidedly like a drinking song, Harry picking up enough of the words to understand that it was certainly raunchy. Prince Zayn's ears were red where he was seated at Harry's side, but otherwise he appeared nonplussed, even when the men marched their way to the royal table and jerked both Harry and Zayn out of their seats, wrapping them in bedsheets, picking them up, and carrying them out of the dining hall.

Harry was barely holding back from shrieking bloody murder, not exactly comfortable with strangers manhandling him, but Prince Zayn remained calm and collected, and Harry didn't want to appear like a child, so he contented himself with crying quietly to himself. The men put him down to drag him up some stairs, and then he and Prince Zayn were separated, the Prince dragged down one end of a long hallway while Harry was taken to another, summarily stripped, and thrown into another large, wooden tub for the second time that day. There were a lot of very naughty jokes about genitalia while the men helped bathe Harry, most of the jokes being about Harry's genitals in particular, and then he was dried and dressed in bedclothes. Thankfully they did not wrap him in bedsheets again, but they did grab Harry by the arms and make him run through the palace, up another flight of stairs and down another long hallway, throwing open heavy wooden doors and shoving Harry inside. The timing was truly excellent, because just as Harry began to take in the room, with its singular canopy bed, two bedside tables, and soft mood lighting, Prince Zayn was being shoved into the room from the other side, the door shutting behind him with a loud, final slam.

An awkward silence fell over the room. Without everyone else there, without the cheers and the music and the chatter and only the sounds of their quickened breaths and pounding heartbeats, Harry realized he didn't have anything to say to the man standing across from him. They were strangers in the most absolute sense of the word. Harry's hands shook and the cough he made as he cleared his throat seemed to ring throughout the room.

Prince Zayn had already changed into his bedclothes, same as Harry, and he looked warm and beautiful, his tan skin even more honeyed under the soft lanterns' glow. He avoided Harry's gaze as he slowly lowered himself onto the bed, pulling the sheets over himself before turning, shadows dancing across his cheekbones as he watched Harry expectantly. Harry took a deep, shuddering breath of his own and climbed into the bed beside his husband, nowhere near as elegantly as the Prince managed, but he accomplished it without braining himself or hitting his husband in the face, so he considered it an accomplishment of sorts.

And then they just sat there, the Prince scrubbing at his face with a closed fist as a blush bloomed across his cheeks while Harry examined his hands, suddenly finding his own palms superbly fascinating.

Prince Zayn opened his mouth, saying something so quickly in his own mother tongue that Harry couldn't even hope to follow or understand. He really would need to work on overcoming that language barrier. “I didn't understand whatever it is you just said,” Harry answered in the Common Tongue. “I – I'm sorry.”

Prince Zayn shook his head, a self-effacing little smirk on his face, before awkwardly reaching over to grab at Harry's chin, tilting Harry's head up and smiling when their eyes met. It was probably the first time they had looked at each other so directly, and Harry's heart stopped, overwhelmed by Prince Zayn's beauty once more – the pink of his lips, the tiny freckle in his hazel eyes, the soft stubble already blossoming across his cheeks.

“I said that we don't have to do anything,” Prince Zayn clarified, the words coming out clear but slightly accented. Harry was hopelessly endeared. “Louis is going to say we consummated our marriage whether we actually did or not. He's the one tasked with listening in on our bedding ceremony.”

“No, I mean – I want to,” Harry said, bringing his hand up to meet the one the Prince had underneath his chin and interlacing their fingers. Prince Zayn's palms were surprisingly calloused, digits worn but still soft to the touch. Harry didn't use the word very often in regards to other people, but everything about Prince Zayn was indeed _perfect_. Harry wasn't sure what he had done to deserve such a gorgeous spouse, wondered if Caroline worked some magic on his behalf, because simply sitting next to the Prince made Harry feel infinitely blessed. Prince Zayn was more than Harry ever deserved. “But I just. I don't know you? Not that that's stopped me before – ”

The Prince cackled, this absolutely adorable little giggle where his entire face lit up, hazel eyes squeezing shut in glee, before his face went startlingly red and he brought his free hand up to slap against his mouth. Harry grinned, squeezing the hand Harry still held in his own reassuringly.

“No need to try to pretend to be calm and disaffected around me,” Harry said, letting his voice sink lower and counting it as a victory when the Prince let his free hand drop, mouth going a little slack as his eyes darted between Harry's lips and Harry's gaze. Harry's heart sang with glee. There _was_ some attraction here between the two of them, then. “I _am_ your husband, after all.”

“And isn't that a strange thought,” Prince Zayn mumbled, turning away. Harry was surprised at the hot disappointment that clawed through his throat once the Prince was no longer holding his gaze. “I still cannot believe it.”

“Well, if it's any consolation, neither can I,” Harry answered, unable to hide the sadness that crept into his voice. Zayn turned sharply and Harry shrank under his assessing gaze.

“Don't be – I'm not saying – ” Prince Zayn cut himself off, scowling. “I'm sorry. The words aren't coming out right. But I'm not sad. I'm certainly not upset. I am _elated_.”

“You are?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” the Prince confirmed. “We shall make an impressive couple. I am very pleased.”

Harry quirked a sly eyebrow and inquired, “A love match?”

Prince Zayn snorted, shaking his head as he smiled, and Harry grinned in return, feeling himself grow increasingly giddier with every laugh he won out of his husband. Harry couldn't explain it, felt drunk with happiness. He knew that he had a reputation at his old court, had heard whispers that he was infatuated with beauty, was entirely too shallow, too superficial. Harry was the first to admit that he enjoyed surrounding himself with finely crafted faces, that he had a weakness for soft features and warm skin, but what Harry was feeling for Prince Zayn paled in comparison to the fleeting moments Harry sought with others in the past. Harry felt heady with emotion, with lust and his desperation to win Prince Zayn over, to prove to himself and everyone else that he was no longer a vapid little boy, that Harry was meant to meet Prince Zayn and fall in love with him, that this was _destiny_. Because it was, wasn't it? Had to be. The banter they were establishing, the fact that Prince Zayn still hadn't let go of Harry's hand, his thumb running a soft pattern over the skin in between Harry's own thumb and pointer finger. There was something real here, the beginning of something truly spectacular, and Harry wanted to bask in the resplendence.

“Time will tell,” Prince Zayn replied enigmatically, looking up at Harry through the dark fan of his eyelashes.

Harry licked his lips, his eyes dropping to trace the pout of Prince Zayn's grin. “I want to kiss you,” Harry remarked plainly.

“Yes?” Zayn asked, swiping his tongue over his own lips and squeezing Harry's palm. “I think you should.”

“Okay,” Harry replied, steeling himself and drawing his shoulders back. Prince Zayn giggled before sobering himself, plumping his lips up in a smolder, eyes still dancing with mirth. Harry scoffed but leaned forward anyway, ghosting his breath over Prince Zayn's mouth before the Prince closed the distance between them, pressing his lips against Harry's and making a low, pleased noise when Harry returned the pressure. Harry opened his mouth slightly and Prince Zayn slid his tongue inside, Harry groaning when Prince Zayn curled his tongue around Harry's, the Prince tasting of the sweet dessert wine they drank together earlier. Harry chased the taste, plunging his own tongue further into Prince Zayn's mouth, untangling their fingers so Harry could bring both hands to rest on either side of his husband's face, dancing his fingertips over Prince Zayn's neck. The Prince growled, nipping at Harry's bottom lip, and pushed Harry backward, pulling away and bracketing himself over Harry's prostrate form.

“Is this okay?” Prince Zayn asked, lips already appearing slightly swollen. He was so handsome, but it wasn't enough. Harry wanted to see the Prince utterly undone, could already feel the hot, thick heat of Prince Zayn's cock against the inside of his own thigh, wanted to grind up against him until they were both panting and spent. And even then, Harry was sure that wouldn't be enough either. Nothing could ever be.

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry hissed, bucking up slightly, desperate for friction.

“Sure?”

Harry reached up and ran fingers through the shorter hairs at the back of Prince Zayn's head. “Yes, Your Highness. Want you to take me.”

Prince Zayn frowned, pulling away to sit on his haunches at the end of the bed, leaving Harry bereft and chasing his touch. “Don't know if I can do that yet.”

“Is it – is it too much?” Harry asked, sitting up and wrapping his arms around his knees. “Am I moving too fast?”

“I – I think so,” Prince Zayn replied, a sad, apologetic look skittering across his countenance. “Is that okay?”

“Why wouldn't it be?” Harry countered with a smile. “We have nothing but time. Whatever you want.”

“I just – if you want me to, I can try,” Prince Zayn said. “We can go slow.”

Harry shook his head. “I'm not going to force you. Like you said, Louis will say we consummated whether we laid together or not. If you're not ready or you don't want to – ”

“It's just a lot,” Prince Zayn acknowledged in a whisper. “Meeting you today – I mean, there hasn't really been any opportunity to talk frankly. And then they expect us to take each other immediately. I didn't even know what you looked like this morning.” Prince Zayn sighed and crawled back up the length of the bed, lying down on Harry's side and lacing their fingers together. Harry purred at the contact and smiled small and secretly, just for Prince Zayn. “I could lay with you tonight, but I want it to mean something. I want to care about you before we join our bodies. I don't know. It's _supposed_ to mean something.”

“Then we wait,” Harry replied. “I'll wait for you. Until you think we are both ready.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, of course,” Harry confirmed. “Can I kiss you again?”

Prince Zayn smiled, his eyes crinkling, and nodded, lips still scrunched up in a grin when Harry darted forward and pressed their mouths together. Prince Zayn easily relaxed into the kiss, bringing his hands to Harry's hips as his mouth gave way underneath Harry's. Harry brought one knee to rest against Prince Zayn's hip and threw the other over the width of Prince Zayn's body, bracing himself over his husband and grinning. “Is this okay?”

“Why wouldn't it be?” Prince Zayn countered with a self-satisfied smirk. “I do like your hair,” he continued, reaching up to tug slightly on one of Harry's wavy locks. Harry groaned, hips surging forward unconsciously, and Prince Zayn's eyes went dark at the sound, bringing a determined hand to pull at Harry's hair again.

“Please, Your Highness,” Harry gasped as pinpricks of pleasure danced through his body with every little pull. “Don't _tease_.”

“I said I don't think I can take you, but watching you like this is a whole other matter,” Prince Zayn replied conversationally, actually ghosting his fingers over the growing bulge in Harry's nightclothes. Harry moaned, burying his head in Prince Zayn's shoulder and panting when he felt hands paw at his ass through the fabric of his clothing. “They left olive oil for us on the bedside table,” Prince Zayn remarked, swirling his hips in tiny circles, his thickness pulsing up against Harry in a way that made Harry's entire being tremble. “I could pour some on my fingertips, let you sit on them and make a proper mess. Would that tide you over for the time being?”

Harry cursed, biting down on Prince Zayn's shoulder, who brought his hand up to tug once more on Harry's hair. Harry moved with Prince Zayn's hand until he was once more lying on his back, shoulder-to-shoulder with his husband.

Prince Zayn's pupils were almost completely dilated, his arousal tenting his bed pants. “Or I could watch you,” the Prince whispered, voice husky with lust. “Could watch you and then you could watch me.”

“ _Please_ ,” Harry plead, not even sure what he was begging for, not sure whether he wanted Prince Zayn to stop or to get it over with and take Harry however he wanted. “Please, Your Highness.”

Prince Zayn swore loudly and colorfully, finally relinquishing his hold on Harry's hair and sitting back, taking several long steadying breaths. “Sorry. I – I'm sorry. I know I _just_ said – and that's confusing. I don't want to be confusing. But you're so beautiful. Are you descended from sirens?” he asked, a wry smile on his face.

“Are you?” Harry retorted, feeling so aroused he could cry. “Were you sent to provoke my death with cruel teasing?”

“Maybe we should go to sleep,” Prince Zayn suggested softly, pushing sweaty strands off of Harry's face. “We have a whole month of honeymoon ahead of us.”

“So you're not going to let me sit on your fingers?” Harry clarified. “Because that would certainly make my day.”

Prince Zayn giggled. “I – maybe later.”

“Okay,” Harry said. Prince Zayn smiled at him, brushing a strand of hair behind Harry's ear, and then leaned forward, pressing another soft kiss to Harry's mouth.

“We could be a love match yet, yes?” Prince Zayn mumbled, his lips brushing against Harry's.

“Yes,” Harry answered. “We could be.”

Prince Zayn grinned, leaning back against the bed. “Goodnight, Your Highness.”

“Goodnight,” Harry whispered, curling his body around Prince Zayn's and letting his eyes slide shut while his husband breathed soft and evenly beside him.

 

When Harry woke up, it was well past dawn, he was warm and sleepily aroused, and at least ten people were standing over his bed, Prince Zayn nowhere to be found.

“What the f – ” Harry muttered, wiping sleep out of his eyes and taking in the perplexing scene in front of him.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” Louis chirped loudly. “We take it that you had a long, fruitful night with our dear Prince Zayn. He left at daybreak for his morning horse ride with a definitive spring in his step.”

“And a bruise the size of a dragon egg on his neck,” one of the other noblemen remarked, leading to loud jeers and whistles from the surrounding crowd. Harry pulled the covers further up around him, heat rising to his face, while Louis winked at Harry congenially.

“Prince Zayn entrusted us all with orders to help you get ready for today's activities,” Louis continued. “You slept through breakfast – no doubt because the night's festivities wore you out, you sly dog – but you are expected at lunch. The Prince, your husband, will then be taking you to his own private castle in the mountains, which is about a half day's ride from here. You two will spend about a month together without all of the boredom and frivolities of court. Does that sound good to you, Your Highness?”

“Uh,” Harry said, glancing around the room at the assemblage of unfamiliar faces, covers still drawn to his chin. “Yes?”

“Splendid!” Louis exclaimed, grabbing the sheets with one hand and tugging them off of Harry, who squawked, holding his hands over his crotch while his entire body went red. “Up you go, time for your bath.”

“Can everyone else leave?” Harry hissed, turning to Louis pleadingly, feeling naked even though he was fully clothed. “ _Please_?”

“All right, all right,” Louis agreed. “The rest of you – let's give the Prince some space. He's feeling shy even though we all know he spent the night engaged in rapturous lovemaking!”

The other men in the room groaned and booed but followed Louis' orders, filing out of the room and leaving it still and quiet in their wake. Harry let out a long sigh of relief before turning once more to Louis, who was still grinning at Harry conspiratorially.

“What?” Harry asked wearily.

“Did you and Zayn fuck?” Louis blurted. “I heard tousling throughout the night but I couldn't be sure.”

Harry was certain of it – he was going to die of mortification. “ _Language_ , Louis.”

“Like you don't have the foulest mouth,” Louis said. “Well? Did you?”

“A lady never tells,” Harry answered.

“Lucky you're the furthest thing from one,” Louis retorted, essentially bouncing on his feet where he loomed over the bed. “Come on, Harry. Tell me!”

“Why didn't you ask Prince Zayn?”

“He was too busy getting on a horse!” Louis moaned. “Which means I have to get all of my gossip from you. So did he – ” Louis raised his eyebrows, miming a particular sexual act that Harry didn't think he had ever encountered, although he wouldn't mind learning more about it, should Prince Zayn be his personal tutor.

“I don't know what that is, so no, we didn't do that,” Harry said.

“But you did do _something_ ,” Louis smirked.

“I – maybe.”

“Was it good?” Louis asked, jumping on the bed next to Harry. “Is that why you look like you're stashing a scroll in your bedclothes? Were you dreaming about last night?”

“I am going to throttle you,” Harry said, immediately clamping back down on his groin. “You are a menace to decent and proper society.”

“Yes, we all know that,” Louis agreed. “But you didn't say 'no,' and I know all of that in your pants is _not_ for me.”

Harry smiled before he could even stop himself, looking down at his hands while Louis cackled. “We didn't lay together!” Harry exclaimed. “We didn't, but. It was nice.”

“I knew he was looking a bit too smug,” Louis mused. “I'm so pleased for the both of you – knew that you two wouldn't be able to keep your hands off each other. What did I tell you? All of that worrying – and for what? But now, you really must get up. I'm under strict orders to bring you to the main banquet hall, so let's get going.”

“Right, right,” Harry agreed and he let himself be pulled out of bed, a smile firmly fixed to his face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was easily the fluffiest chapter I've ever written for anything, ever.


	5. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So I'm the one who is newly married, but I'm the only one in a state of sexual frustration,” Harry remarked. “Cheers to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Emily, Fee, and Rue, for continuously reading over these long chapters. Thanks, also, to everyone who has prodded me to put this up. Sorry it's a little late!

When Harry was a small child, his family always spent the winter months in the mountains. These excursions away from court life were always Harry's favorite, and as a boy he was particularly enamored by the snow, would sit in an alcove in his room for hours, mesmerized by the swirling flakes as they drifted past his window. On those days that his nanny, Lady Cole, promised to take him down to a creek that cut through the castle grounds, Harry would wake up early, entire body thrumming with excitement while the Lady helped him get dressed, adorning his body with rich furs and warm leather gloves. Harry almost always ended up with a fever and dripping nose anyway, taking off his gloves and dipping chubby fingers into the icy water in futile attempts to cup tiny hands around some silver-bodied fish, but the experience fostered a deep fondness in Harry for mountain ranges and high altitudes, for the sleek, pristine grounds he associated with the deceptively untroubled days of his youth.

Ultimately the royal family had to evacuate that particular slice of property because missionaries hired by King Yaser overran it. Harry couldn't remember the details now – he _had_ been very young. But he believed the missionaries ended up torching the entire property, scattered the burning remains onto one of the villages lying helplessly below.

It was hard to reconcile that such a thing ever happened, that such horrors every occurred or were even commonplace, particularly now with Prince Zayn at Harry's side, a boy of such immaculate beauty Harry could not ever imagine him being touched by war, or death, or suffering. It was hard to remember that Prince Zayn's family had been responsible for so much of the turmoil Harry lived through and witnessed as a young boy, not when Queen Patricia welcomed Harry to the midday meal with a warm, comforting hug and the King greeted Harry with another bow, clapping firm hands over Harry's shoulders and smiling broadly when Harry returned the gesture.

Harry did not like to dwell on hardship because he was just not the type, felt it to be a tremendous waste of energy, but a small part of himself felt as though he was betraying his people should he not take a moment and appreciate the extraordinary circumstances he had found himself in. It was rare that life afforded people chances like this, the opportunity to end strife and suffering with promises of love and lifelong adoration.

His step-father and King Yaser had facilitated this marriage to stop a war that had long ravaged both of their lands and decimated generations of men. It was a fairly simple and standard agreement – an arrangement facilitated by men using young boys as chess pieces, nothing more. Harry understood this – he hadn't much liked it, but he understood the principle of it all. It had not been intended as a love match, Harry and Prince Zayn were merely supposed to tolerate each other, fall into some sort of understanding by which they could function as a unit. It was not expected for them to feel warmth in their hearts, for them to enjoy the life they were now sharing. But whenever Harry looked over at Prince Zayn during the midday meal, their eyes catching and the Prince's cheeks and ears flaring with heat, Harry's heart sung, overwhelmed by the possibilities. Harry had tried to prepare himself for the worst all the while hoping for the best, but every time Prince Zayn's elbows knocked against Harry's own, accidentally-on purpose brushes of skin, Harry felt a shudder rip through his ribcage.

It had been less than twenty-four hours. Less than a day, and Harry was already struck by how quickly his fondness for Prince Zayn was growing. Harry didn't even know if they had anything in common besides the situation they were forced into, but Harry found that it didn't matter, that he didn't _care_ , was willing to meet the Prince halfway and guarantee that this marriage was a success. And now the Prince was going to be taking Harry to the mountains, to his own private home there, one that everyone assured Harry was Prince Zayn's favorite, his retreat from the chaos of court. It was mad, how quickly everything was moving and how easily Harry found that he could follow the currents now that he was content with their advancement.

By the time Harry finished his meal, Louis walked over to tell him that all of his things had already been packed and that he was expected to go straight to the carriage that would take him away. “You and Zayn will be up in the mountains alone,” Louis added. “There will be a handful of servants, I presume, but this month together is intended to make up for the fact that you and Zayn did not get to meet before the wedding. Make it count. I will come up for a visit within a fortnight.”

Harry was whisked away before he could say much else to Louis – to inquire as to what Liam and Niall would be up to, to ask about everyone else Harry had grown close to over the past few months. But it hardly mattered, not when Harry and Prince Zayn were standing in the main hall overlooking the palace's spacious courtyard and Prince Zayn laid a soft hand on Harry's elbow, the heat of the Prince's touch on Harry's own skin feeling as close to rapture as Harry could imagine. “Are you ready to leave?” the Prince asked, his words quiet but intentional.

“Of course,” Harry said, and he grinned when Prince Zayn took his hand and led him to the carriage that would take them out of the capital.

  


It was another warm day and the boy from the wedding ceremony, Kevin, drove the carriage along a paved road that led out of Jinan. Their carriage was moderately discrete, removed of the markings that would let anyone know it was housing royals, the top covered over with fabric, and as they made their way out of the capital, Harry and Prince Zayn occasionally peeked outside, taking advantage of every excuse to lean over each other and touch bare skin, hands, exposed collarbones, drumming fingers along the back of each other's necks and nattering on mindlessly. They made their way by several celebrations where city folk were cooking food outside of their homes, multistory golden-hued buildings that children swung off of, women laughing and poking at food roasting over open flames in the middle of the street while men sat around in clusters and played games, cursing loud and colorfully. As the carriage moved further outside of the city and eventually past the walls that blocked Jinan from the territories surrounding it, the celebrations became more disparate, and curious children began chasing after the carriage, ruby-lipped from the fruit they held in sticky hands.

“The celebrations after any royal marriage ceremony typically last for several days,” Prince Zayn explained as he ripped back the covering hanging over their carriage, grinning when some of the children chasing after them squealed in undisguised delight. “The parties after ours will be particularly long, since it's also a celebration of the end of the war.”

“The idea that an entire country is celebrating our marriage is unfathomable to me,” Harry said, laughing when a prepubescent girl with a baby strapped to her back actually attempted to throw a pear to Prince Zayn, just barely missing his outstretched hand. “Can we stop and talk to the children? I need to congratulate that girl on her throw.”

“I don't see why not,” Prince Zayn answered with a shrug, leaning across the carriage and tapping Kevin on the shoulder to get his attention. Prince Zayn whispered fast and quick into Kevin's ear and Kevin nodded, slowing the horses to a hearty trot and eventually bringing the carriage to a stop altogether. The small pack of children cheered in unison and energetically rushed down the side of the road, their multicolored clothes almost making them appear like a moving rainbow. “You'll have to speak to them in Nia,” Prince Zayn added as the children swarmed around them, all of the kids barely tall enough to peek over the sides. “They won't understand you otherwise.”

Harry nodded hesitantly, grinning when the girl who had tried to throw a pear to Prince Zayn handed them more pieces of fruit she had hidden under her dress, ultimately stepping back to adjust the child she was carrying. Harry could tell immediately that she was a scrappy little girl, daring brown eyes and dark skin, hair falling down her back in unruly curls and blisters on her hands from hard labor. She was obviously the small pack's leader, taller and probably older than the rest and with a commanding presence despite her slight build. She reminded Harry so much of Gemma that his heart momentarily ached. “You're the new Prince, aren't you?” the girl said, voice uncharacteristically deep, although thankfully with a slower speech pattern so Harry had no difficulty understanding. “I saw you yesterday, during the parade.”

“You did?” Harry asked, Prince Zayn grabbing Harry's hand again and squeezing it reassuringly. “What else did you see?”

“I saw you and Prince Zayn, too!” another child squealed, the others chiming in in a cacophony of high-pitched voices. “You got married under the flowers!”

“My uncle said you stopped the war,” the first girl continued, the others falling to a hush around her the minute she began to speak again. “So that's why I got fruit for you! We've been waiting by the side of the road, waiting for you to come by all morning. I knew you would be leaving the capital and wanted to make sure you had a wedding present!”

“Thank you,” Harry said. “Prince Zayn and I are both so thankful for the fruit – your throw earlier was quite impressive. What's your name?”

“Sarah,” the girl answered. “I'm Sarah, and this is my little brother, Joshua.”

“Thank you, Sarah,” Harry replied, the girl smiling wide and reaching up to pat at Harry's hand, her fingers uncharacteristically warm.

“We'll need to be going,” Prince Zayn said ruefully. “You'll all be good, won't you? Won't cause your parents any unnecessary trouble?”

“Of course!” one of the little boys yelled, Sarah nodding and looking directly at Harry as she did so.

“We'll see you all again soon,” Prince Zayn said. “Now, go on and run back to your family, okay?”

“We'll tell them we saw you!” Sarah called, readjusting the baby on her back once more. “And that you liked the fruit. I got it from a tree outside of my Uncle's house!”

“Tell your Uncle we say 'thank you,'” Harry answered and the children all moved back once Kevin guided the horses into motion again, the kids waving at the carriage before turning and running back down the road, singing and laughing as they went.

  


Harry fell asleep at some point after eating the fruit little Sarah gave him and resting his head on Prince Zayn's shoulder, the Prince pointing out villages and landmarks, his voice low and quiet as his lips moved against the shell of Harry's ear. It was nightfall when he was shook awake, not by Prince Zayn, but by Kevin, a lantern in hand and an apologetic look on his face.

“We're here, Your Highness,” Kevin whispered. “Could you attempt to wake Prince Zayn? I've never had much luck trying.”

Harry frowned, sleepy and disoriented, but when he turned his head, he realized that Prince Zayn was wrapped around him, arms grasping Harry's middle, his long eyelashes like dark shadows smudged over his defined cheekbones. Harry smiled to himself, brushing hair off of Prince Zayn's forehead, and dug his fingers into the Prince's side, tickling him. “Love, we've here,” Harry said. “We need to get out of the carriage now.”

Prince Zayn pouted and Harry dug his fingers in more aggressively, chuckling when Prince Zayn jolted awake and pouted at him.

“We're here,” Harry repeated. “Let's get up and go inside.”

“Don't wanna,” Prince Zayn mumbled. “Here is fine for sleeping.”

“Come on now, love,” Harry goaded. “Get up, please?”

“What do I get if I do?” Prince Zayn asked, leaning back and yawning, his eyes crinkling shut, lines on his cheek from where he had fallen asleep against Harry's robes.

“What do you _want_ if you do?” Harry asked, quirking an eyebrow upward.

Prince Zayn smirked, biting his bottom lip, as he muttered, “I'm sure I can think of something.” Prince Zayn laughed as Harry felt warmth course through his body, sure that it was obvious that he was blushing, even from the poor light of the moon and Kevin's lantern. The Prince brushed his hand high up Harry's thigh as he climbed over Harry and jumped down from the carriage. Harry cleared his throat and pulled his robe taut around him before following Prince Zayn, inhaling sharply once his eyes took in the sight around him.

There really was just _something_ about being up in the mountains – the crisp, cool air, the fog that hung low and cut through to Harry's bones, the chill of the night the first real bit of familiarity in this foreign kingdom. The stars seemed closer, every breath seemed sharper, and Harry could even hear the howl of wolves out in the distance. The mountains were all around them, large and snow-capped, pieces of purple earth that jutted out from the surface unbidden, jagged and menacing. Prince Zayn's estate looked tiny in comparison, a spacious if simply constructed wooden house nestled behind a small thicket of young poplar trees.

Kevin led Prince Zayn and Harry inside, taking their robes and disappearing deep into the interior of the estate. Prince Zayn grabbed Harry by the elbow and led him up the main staircase, his hand sleep warm as they walked down a long, sparsely decorated hallway and turned at a room at the end of the stretch. They parted in order to change into their sleep clothes, and as much as Harry wanted something more to happen once they were dressed for bed and laying underneath the canopy together, Harry was exhausted enough to not press the matter, instead smiling to himself when Prince Zayn threw his arm around Harry's middle again, snuggling in close and murmuring “Goodnight, babe,” into the crook of Harry's neck.

It wasn't until Harry was on the verge of sleep himself that he realized Prince Zayn hadn't said the simple words in the Common Tongue or Nia, but in Harry's own mother tongue. Harry smiled to himself, pressing a soft kiss against Prince Zayn's hairline as he drifted to sleep.

  
The next morning, Harry awoke and Prince Zayn was still using him as a pillow, Harry's arm feeling numb from the weight of his lumbering form. Harry managed to disentangle their bodies without stirring Prince Zayn and relieved himself in the bed pot before calling to a servant, who directed him to a tub outside of the house. The sun was a welcome heat on Harry's skin, and Harry bathed with the mountains and the clear blue sky serving as a backdrop before dressing himself simply for the day in worn breeches, sandals, and a loose, forest green shift, slipping his wedding ring onto his left hand with a little selfish smile. By the time Harry made his way back into the estate for breakfast, Prince Zayn was up as well, sitting downstairs in the house's modest entertainment room, dark hair in disarray and still dressed in his bedclothes.

“I'm sorry I'm not decent,” Prince Zayn said abashedly as way of greeting. “I woke up and wanted to eat before taking my bath.”

“Absolutely no worries, Your Highness,” Harry answered with a shrug, seating himself next to Prince Zayn at the table and eying the spread of food before him – a tall chalice full of warmed milk, rolls of what Harry assumed to be sweet bread, cheeses, walnuts, pears, and cherries.

“You don't have to call me that, you know,” Prince Zayn replied wryly, popping several walnuts into his mouth and looking unbearably attractive as he chewed. “I don't ever hear my parents referring to each other so formally.”

Harry lifted a shoulder once more, waving off the servant girl who darted forward from where she had been standing stock-still in the corner of the room, hands outstretched and ready to prepare Harry's plate. “I rather like it,” Harry answered, grabbing a roll of bread and some goat cheese for himself. “I've been calling you 'Prince Zayn' in my head, as well.”

Prince Zayn sputtered as he drank his milk, wiping at his mouth and blushing. “Why in the world would you be doing that?”

“Because I like it,” Harry said. “How have you been referring to me in your head?”

Prince Zayn frowned, opening his mouth, apparently mulling his answer over before closing it again. “I suppose I have been mentally referring to you as 'Prince Harry,'” Prince Zayn admitted. “But that is the etiquette, yes? You're Prince Harry. It's essentially your name.”

“And 'Your Highness' is how I am supposed to refer to you,” Harry said. “So I'm going to call you that. At least for the time being.”

Prince Zayn rolled his eyes, but it appeared fond, so Harry was still pleased. “How do you like the food?”

“It's very good,” Harry answered. “Everything here – it's all very good. Thank you.”

“I was hoping you would join me on a stroll later,” Prince Zayn said. “There's a courtyard – I like to go riding, but Kevin hasn't brought around the horses yet. I would like to get my daily exertion in either way.”

“I thought your horses were still down in the capital?” Harry frowned.

“Well, I have many horses,” Prince Zayn replied. “During the war, they were the only gifts my family could really give me without appearing indecent or insensitive.”

“I haven't thanked you for the horses you gave me yet,” Harry said slowly. “I – in my homeland, horses were a rarity. I had to donate the one I had to the war cause when I was a boy. So it means a lot to me, especially that you would get me _several_. That you would provide me with _all_ of the gifts you have procured for me, in fact. I have never been poor, obviously, or wanted for much, but things were still hard in my kingdom, and you have spoiled me. I am deeply grateful for your generosity.”

“Everyone deserves to be spoiled,” Prince Zayn mumbled, but his smile when he directed it to Harry was blindingly genuine. “It was no problem. I wanted you to feel welcome. This situation – it's strange, isn't it? Things could be far different. Far worse.”

“But they aren't,” Harry pointed out.

“But they aren't,” Prince Zayn replied, his voice soft and affirming.

  


It was almost midday by the time Prince Zayn was finally bathed and dressed, but he was gorgeous as always once he came and collected Harry, leading them through the estate and out to the courtyard, which was honestly a misnomer once Harry was standing in the midst of it in the full light of day. The back of the property instead sloped down the side of a mountain, the only thing designating that the large expanse of greenery was a courtyard of sorts being strategically placed decorative rocks. Harry gaped as he took it all in, and Prince Zayn came to stand beside Harry, rubbing the tip of his nose against Harry's neck. Harry grinned, remembering the way the Prince did the same thing before falling asleep the night before, and instead of taking a walk like they were supposed to, they just plopped down on the grass, limbs interlocked as they talked.

“I love this property,” Prince Zayn said with a soft smile. “It's my favorite.”

“I know. You've seemed more relaxed ever since we got up here. How many properties does your family own?” Harry asked. “My mother only had three.”

“We have quite a few. My father is a smart investor,” Prince Zayn answered thoughtfully. “However, when he and my mother were first married, the country was not in a particularly good state due to the years of war, which I presume continues to be the truth in your homeland. The accounts were in ruins and the royal family seemed out of touch with the poverty the people were experiencing. But my father always had the mind for math, figured that if he invested into the war industry, he could make a decent profit. My mother had faith in him, let him do as he pleased. He ended up being right, of course. The university flourished and the noble class grew – it became acceptable to go back to court again. There were innovations in weaponry which opened up new jobs for the common people, and my father was able to build up the royal accounts once more. My mother bought up a whole host of properties throughout the kingdom, I think more so that we had a variety of homes to flee to should your people ever invade, gave all of her children one or two and told us we were individually responsible for their maintenance and upkeep. I own this one, as well as another territory named Abbas that is deeper in the interior, further west and closer to the wild country. And then I'll own the palace in Jinan once I assume the throne.”

Harry pursed his lips, feeling taken aback with the surety with which Prince Zayn spoke about one day being King, particularly considering all of the lively conversations Harry had already overheard on the matter. “And you _are_ going to assume the throne?” Harry asked with a quirked eyebrow. “Not your sister?”

“It certainly looks that way,” Prince Zayn replied after a moment's pause. “Doniya doesn't _want_ to rule, and neither does her husband. They are both of gentle constitutions. They don't have the disposition – the temperament – for rule.”

“And you do?”

“Not necessarily,” Prince Zayn admitted. “But I think the two of us do together.”

Harry scoffed, shaking his head at Prince Zayn in disbelief. “You don't even know me.”

Prince Zayn's expression was haughty when he turned back to Harry. “I know enough.”

Harry shook his head once more, lying back on the grass and staring up at the drifting clouds overhead. It was so much cooler up here in the mountains, quieter, with a soft breeze that ruffled Harry's curls and felt soothing against his scalp. “Meanwhile my step-father had so much faith in me as a ruler he shipped me away the first chance he got.”

“He was trying to end a war,” Prince Zayn said, uprooting several stems of grass and braiding them together with quick and nimble fingers. “He did what he thought best – took advantage of the only opportunity he had. You shouldn't take it personally.”

“Just like you didn't take it personally that your father was betrothing you to a stranger?” Harry asked.

Prince Zayn frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Louis said you sulked a lot when you were told about our engagement,” Harry answered shortly. “Said you took it very personally, for several days at least.”

Pink bloomed across Prince Zayn's cheeks and he licked his lips, had the modesty to appear embarrassed. “Louis says a lot of things. The majority of it is drivel. I wouldn't listen to him.”

“Why not?” Harry asked.

“We'll be fine,” Prince Zayn said shortly, tapping his fingers against Harry's thigh. “It – it doesn't matter what happened before. We're together now.”

Harry chanced a glance at Prince Zayn, who was striking, particularly in profile. Harry found that it was overwhelming to look at the Prince sometimes, like when the sun caught his hazel eyes just so, lighting them almost from the inside. Or when the wind ran through his hair, tousling it softly. Or when he turned and gazed at Harry, smiling softly, privately, almost as though he couldn't believe Harry was real. “We _are_ together now,” Harry agreed, tone soft. “We'll make it count, yes?”

“Of course,” Prince Zayn said, lying on the grass next to Harry, their knees knocking together, every brush sending sparks of pleasure up Harry's spine. “Have I told you about my barn?”

“No,” Harry laughed, surprised by the sudden subject change. “You have a barn?”

“Yes,” Prince Zayn answered. “Well, it's a barn and then a pen. It's just where they allow me to keep all of my mountain animals. It's about a twenty minute ride east, once Kevin brings me my damn horses.”

“What kind of animals do you have?”

“Some wild dogs,” Prince Zayn answered. “A few cats, but they come and go, you can imagine. A chinchilla. Then my horses, of course, and a pen for my pigs. And a goat!”

“A goat?” Harry repeated. “Someone's very excited.”

“Well, I just got Petey, he's still a little kid,” Prince Zayn replied. “I got him late last year, maybe. I named him after a traveling musician who came to court once named Pete Wentz. He's just a great storyteller, I really enjoyed having Sir Wentz around.” The Prince was glowing, words spilling from his mouth all in a rush. “So then my mother got me a goat – I had always wanted one, and I asked for one during the holidays. And Pete had just left so I named the goat after him. I should've invited him to the wedding, actually – Pete the person, not the goat. You would've really enjoyed him – he's good for a laugh, too. Why didn't I think to do that earlier?”

“It's okay,” Harry said, still giggling at Prince Zayn's excitement and subsequent dismay. “We can invite him to court for your birthday.”

“We could,” Prince Zayn mused. “Or for our first anniversary.”

“Now that's a thought,” Harry said, grinning up at Prince Zayn. “Whatever you want, love.”

The Prince blushed at the pet name, glancing over at Harry with pleasure etched into the upturn of his mouth. “Anyway. I think we should go visit the barn. I want to show you all of the animals.”

“Okay.”

“I know all of your horses are still at the property by the beach, but you can ride one of mine,” Prince Zayn continued. “We can make a day out of it. Bring food and play with the dogs. And with Petey.”

“That sounds nice,” Harry nodded. “Let's do that.”

“I'll tell the servants to prepare everything for us then,” Prince Zayn said around a yawn. “Maybe in two days time? I feel like it is going to rain tomorrow but I want it to be sunny when you first go.”

Harry knew that he must be gazing at Prince Zayn with unbelievable amounts of affection, but he honestly couldn't even help himself. “That all sounds good to me, love.”

Prince Zayn grinned up at Harry, humming softly. “Can I ask you something?”

Harry nodded, knocking his knees into Prince Zayn's once more. “Yes, of course.”

“Can I kiss you?”

It took everything in Harry's power not to laugh, so he just bit at his lip instead, nodding enthusiastically. “You never have to ask.”

“Well, I just – ” Prince Zayn shook his head jerkily, propping himself on his haunches and leaning over, pressing his mouth gently against Harry's. Prince Zayn's lips were slightly chapped and he pulled away to lick at them before kissing Harry again, humming when Harry tugged at a tassel hanging from his shirt. “You're so beautiful,” Prince Zayn mumbled half against Harry's lips, pulling back and sitting on his knees. “So, so beautiful.”

Harry shook his head in disbelief. “I'm nothing compared to you. You're amazing.”

“You don't even know me,” Prince Zayn said teasingly, falling back against the grass and taking Harry's hand in his own, tapping his fingertips against Harry's.

“I know enough,” Harry huffed out, burying his nose against Prince Zayn's neck and trying to memorize the pitter-patter of his husband's heartbeat.

  


The mountain home was fairly small for a royal property, all things considered. A vacation estate, modest to reflect their humble surroundings. However, there was enough space that Harry _could_ sleep in his own bedroom should he have wanted to. But after lying in the grass with Prince Zayn all day, lazily pointing out the shape of clouds and musing over nonsensical topics, leaning over each other to press sugary kisses against warm skin, Harry could not imagine anything more unwelcome than to go to bed alone. They had long told the servants they could go back to their own families for the night, so Harry interlocked his fingers with Prince Zayn's and let the Prince pull him through the house and up the old, winding staircase back to the master bedroom. Now that Harry was alert enough to take everything in, Harry realized that the room itself was simply furnished, a canopy bed with red coverings, several dressers, an alcove underneath one of the windows, and a small desk completely covered with old, leather-bound books, scrolls, and quills.

“I was doing research,” Prince Zayn mouthed against the skin of Harry's neck, both of their eyes trained on the desk. “Before you came – I couldn't bear to be at court more often than not, but I still needed to work. I sent everyone I held most dear to meet you so you wouldn't feel alone, so you would have a comfortable transition and learn about me through my friends. I would ride out here for three, four days at a time and try to read up when I could. All of those books are from the university.”

“Read up on what?” Harry asked, shivering when Prince Zayn's hands traced a lazy pattern against the skin of his lower back.

“On you,” Prince Zayn answered simply. “Your land. Everything I could get my hands on. I didn't want to be unprepared.”

“You weren't,” Harry mumbled. “I've felt nothing but welcome ever since I came here.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Prince Zayn answered with a small smile. “I really, really am.”

“I'm glad I'm with _you_ ,” Harry responded, turning around so he could drape his arms over Prince Zayn's shoulders, ducking his head down when looking directly at the Prince proved to be too much, as always. The servants had lit some lanterns in the room before they left for the night, and the low slanting light, along with the pale luminescence of the moon, laid like a caress across Prince Zayn's face, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones, the delicacy of his lips. He was just so good-looking that Harry wasn't sure what to do with it, how he was supposed to function when there was someone so thoughtful, so caring, so quietly confident in the world, someone who swore to love and care for Harry forever and who seemed to genuinely mean it.

“I'm glad I'm with you,” Prince Zayn answered, brushing a strand of hair out of Harry's face.

“Can we lay together tonight?” Harry murmured. “Is that too forward of me to ask?”

“It's not too forward,” Prince Zayn replied after a moment's pause. “It's expected. It's – it's your duty.”

“But – ?” Harry prompted.

“I just,” Prince Zayn laughed, his tone more than a little self-deprecating as he dragged his hands over his own face. “It's still only been a day. And I don't. We can do . . . things. I just don't think I'm ready to do that particular . . . thing.”

“What do you want to do?” Harry asked. “Can you tell me?”

Prince Zayn lifted a shoulder and pouted at Harry. “I'm – I don't know.”

“Hey,” Harry said softly, leaning in to press a kiss to the edge of Prince Zayn's mouth, humming when he felt the Prince's lips lift in a smile. “Don't worry – don't frown. I don't like seeing you sad.”

“When have you _ever_ seen me sad?” Prince Zayn asked teasingly. “It's been a day.”

“Just now,” Harry replied easily. “And I don't like it. I don't want you to ever be sad, or feel like you owe me anything. You don't.”

“You are silly.”

“I'm being honest,” Harry answered. “We really don't have to do anything, promise. We can just go to bed.”

“If that's all right?” Prince Zayn said.

“And I'll stop asking you,” Harry promised. “When you're ready to lay with me, just let me know.”

Prince Zayn nodded, leaning up to press a kiss against Harry's lips. They parted to change into their bedclothes and then curled up together to go to sleep, Prince Zayn tapping his fingers against Harry's thighs as they drifted off.

  


Prince Zayn was correct that it would rain the next day, but even he did not anticipate several consecutive days of stormy weather. They spent the next week establishing a comfortable routine as rain lashed against the estate's windows – waking up early, having breakfast together, and then sitting in the lounge, bodies pressed together on one of Prince Zayn's chaises, talking mindlessly, reading, or playing cards or chess. Harry was absolutely abysmal at almost any game that required some degree of planning or legitimate foresight, so Prince Zayn took great pains to explain why he played the hands he did or executed certain moves, often having to repeat his explanations more than once when Harry became too distracted tracing the movement of Prince Zayn's lips as he spoke. Harry didn't mind the little lessons, thought Prince Zayn's informational tutoring voice was more than a little adorable. By the time night fell, they would ask the servants to return home, and then curl up together underneath the canopy bed, wrapped around each other so tightly Harry never knew where his body ended and Prince Zayn's began.

Harry still wanted more, woke up frustrated more mornings than not, but their nights together were sweet in a way Harry had never experienced with another person, exploratory kisses and hands grasped together as they memorized each other's mouths. Harry had had his fair share of conquests, but Harry had never felt so helplessly _smitten_ before. Harry just wanted to protect Prince Zayn, shield him from the ugly, outside world, guarantee that he remain unblemished and beautiful. Harry knew that Prince Zayn was older than he was and was more than capable of taking care of himself, but Harry still felt as though he had a duty to safeguard his husband's honor, to keep him safe and lovely, preserve everything about Prince Zayn that made him wonderful. Because the Prince _was_ wonderful, there was no doubt about it. Beyond his good looks, Prince Zayn was also highly intelligent, charitable, and chivalrous, never boastful. Harry was in awe that someone like Prince Zayn even existed, was already planning on buying the King and Queen something lovely as a gift for giving Harry their remarkable and only son.

  


Prince Zayn and Harry were not able to get down to Prince Zayn's barn until the second week of their honeymoon, at which point Louis, Taylor and Matty had already ridden up in a carriage of their own for a brief visit. The three noblemen promised to only stay for a handful of days, all of them eager to return to the seemingly endless celebrations still underway in Jinan, but Harry thought it was nice having them around to break up the long summer days. Taylor was always good for party games and mindless gossip, all about people Harry had yet to actually meet, and Harry was surprised by how much he missed Louis' playful banter. Harry did not spend a lot of one-on-one time with Matty, who seemed to be at the estate purely for business, retreating with Prince Zayn for hours at a time and speaking together in low voices on matters of foreign affairs Harry couldn't even hope to follow, but when all five of them were together, Harry felt nothing but at ease, warm inside in a way that made him realize how much he loved these people who were his enemies only six months before.

Harry knew, obviously, that there was tension between Louis and Taylor, but this was his first opportunity truly seeing the two of them interact with Prince Zayn, and when Louis and Taylor were both in the presence of the Prince, it was as though there was nothing wrong. Indeed, it was as though they enjoyed each other's company, not even ignoring each other, but going out of their way to joke and laugh together. Harry was baffled and it must have showed, because Matty pulled Harry aside at one point and murmured, “The Prince long forbade them from fighting in his presence so they created this facade. Just try to enjoy it, hm?”

Kevin brought the horses around on the second day of the noblemen's visit, so Prince Zayn, Harry, Louis, Matty and Taylor each rode a mare down a path leading along the side of the mountain, the rocky hillside giving way to a grassy plateau housing a modest barn and pig pen. There were indeed plenty of animals – more horses, a bulldog that barked enthusiastically at Prince Zayn as well as several wild dogs that looked more like wolves, a furry little animal that Harry had never seen before and was quite wary of, some pigs, and then, looking distinctly unimpressed by all of the people that had just arrived, Petey the goat. After steering his horse to the barn, Prince Zayn immediately made his way over to the baby goat, running his fingers through Petey's fur and gesturing for Harry to come over and pet him as well, Petey bleating, pleased, when Harry did so.

“Not that damn goat again,” Louis remarked, keeping his distance from Harry and Prince Zayn, instead plopping himself on the ground outside of the pig pen and throwing things for the bulldog to chase after. “That devil goat.”

“Just because he doesn't like _you_ – ” Taylor started, but she cut herself off with a quick glance at the Prince, who could not hear the others in their company now that the strange furry animal had crawled into his lap and stolen his attention. “The goat isn't a demon.” Taylor added quickly instead, taking great pains to keep her voice low.

“It is,” Louis insisted. “It gives me evil looks.”

“Perhaps it can sense incest,” Taylor mumbled, cursing loudly when Matty pinched her arm and made a quick slicing motion across his throat, nodding over to where Harry and Prince Zayn were huddled together. Harry looked between Taylor, who now appeared quite abashed, and Louis, who was glaring at Taylor but wisely holding his tongue. The others did not seem to realize that Harry had even heard Taylor.

Harry felt utterly confused and wanted to ask what the hell a comment like that even _meant_ , but Prince Zayn was jabbering in Harry's ear about Petey's diet, and how big he had gotten since the last time he had seen him, and Harry was still trying to determine what the hell the furry ball in Prince Zayn's lap even _was_. Harry decided to put the whole thing out of his mind for the time being, instead turning to stare at Prince Zayn's happy countenance.

He would later forget about Taylor's comment completely.

  


Louis, Taylor, and Matty left the next day, although Louis promised to return within the week with Liam and Niall in tow, much to Harry's excitement. Harry found that he missed both of his countrymen terribly and was more than a little curious as to how they were adjusting to Prince Zayn's court without Harry's presence to serve as a buffer.

In the subsequent days of waiting, Harry fell into the apathetic malaise that led to his most childish actions back in his own kingdom. He was exceedingly pleased to be in Prince Zayn's presence and to learn more about him and what made him the man he was, but Harry's sexual frustration also grew larger and more unbearable with every passing day. Harry could not remember the last time he had gone so long without taking someone he was even vaguely interested in to bed, but Prince Zayn continued to remain shy and impervious to Harry's charm, going to bed wrapped around Harry and then pretending as though he was oblivious when they woke up each morning and Harry was quite visibly aroused. It was both adorable and maddening. Harry respected Prince Zayn's declaration that he wanted to be in love before laying with Harry, even found it desperately romantic although Harry would never admit it out loud, but Harry was bored and sexually pent-up, felt as though he was fit to burst.

Harry woke up one overcast morning, bathed and dressed himself and returned to the entertainment room to enjoy the delicious spread of fresh food provided for him. Harry still felt deeply unsated, had been shaky with lust ever since he awoke at daybreak, the edges of a delicious dream still fresh in his mind, and he nearly jumped out of his own skin when Prince Zayn joined him at their table, laying a soft hand on Harry's shoulder.

“Are you all right?” Prince Zayn asked, peering at Harry, a soft crease appearing in his forehead. “You're all flushed. Do you have a fever?”

“Um,” Harry sputtered. “I – I'm not sure. I do feel a little out of sorts.”

“Ah, babe,” Prince Zayn frowned, pressing the back of his hand to Harry's forehead. “You do feel rather warm. Perhaps you should stay in today and rest while I take my morning ride?”

“That might be for the best,” Harry squeaked, his mind immediately conjuring the now familiar image of Prince Zayn's thighs bracing either side of a horse, the same golden thighs that Harry had dreamed straddling his waist the night before.

“I can ask the cook to make you some soup, as well,” Prince Zayn suggested. “I came up here once in the winter and fell ill. The cook made me the most delicious bacon and potato stew, if you would like it?”

“Yes, thank you, Your Highness,” Harry mumbled. “May I retire back to our bedroom?”

Prince Zayn nodded sympathetically. “Yes, of course. If you're not feeling well.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Harry repeated, quickly excusing himself and making his way back to their bedroom, stripping himself of all of his clothes and collapsing against the mattress, rubbing his hips against the sheets mindlessly and groaning to himself, wondering if it was possible to die from stymied sexual aggression.

  


Harry somehow managed to nap briefly, waking again when the sun was hung high in the sky. Harry felt sweaty and warm when he stirred, cursing at his body when he realized that he was hard. Harry growled and put his breeches back on, willing his body to cooperate. He was contemplating trolling through the estate just to burn off some energy when a knock came to his door, a servant quickly walking in and setting up a tray of soup before excusing herself. Harry made himself eat and felt mildly better once his stomach was full, but without the edge of hunger to distract him, Harry couldn't help but think about how lovely and thoughtful Prince Zayn was for talking to the cook for him, and then how beautiful he was more generally, and then how much Harry wanted to lay ruin to his body, to cradle him close as he made Prince Zayn writhe in orgasm. He was sure that Prince Zayn made the loveliest noises.

Harry absolutely hated his vivid imagination, and he felt hot and unsettled the further his mind ran with the fantasy. Harry ultimately walked across the room to throw open the windows, the bracing air more than welcome on his scalding skin. Harry spent a moment slumped over the window frame, breathing deep and slow, attempting to calm his frazzled nerves. Harry lifted his head up to take in the mountains and the clouds roiling across the horizon, smiling to himself when he saw Prince Zayn riding one of his mares down in the courtyard below. The Prince had rolled up the sleeves of his chemise, exposing intricate designs etched into the skin of his arms, and Harry realized with a start that he had never noticed them before, didn't think he had ever even seen Prince Zayn's bare arms.

Any composure that Harry had gained over the past few minutes instantly went away, Harry feeling like he was in a trance as he watched Prince Zayn on horseback. It wasn't fair that someone could be so gorgeous, whether sitting next to Harry and reading from an old manuscript or in motion on the back of an Arabian horse, forsaking a saddle and riding barefoot and bareback. Harry didn't realize he was palming at himself until he had already been at it for several long moments, eyes slinking closed at the thought of Prince Zayn braced over Harry's waist, instead.

Harry felt more than a little dirty doing this, sitting down on the small alcove in front of the window and untying the laces on his breeches before pushing them down his thighs. Harry spat in his palm and wrapped fingers around himself, biting his lip before lying length-wise along the cushions decorating the alcove, pulling his foreskin back as the first stirring of pleasure crept through his limbs. Harry felt like the worst sort of voyeur but he also could immediately tell that this was exactly what he needed, the unsettled feeling coursing through his veins ebbing out of his body with every long pull on his cock as he imagined Prince Zayn laid next to him, reaching over himself to grip Harry at the base, tanned fingers that dipped past Harry's scrotum and ventured further. . . .

Harry's gratification was building, the familiar roiling in his stomach growing larger and larger, when he heard the door to his room crash open. Harry cursed, falling over hard against the floor and trying to tuck himself back into his breeches, while Niall screeched, throwing his hands over his eyes.

“Sorry – gods, Harry, sorry!” Niall cried.

“Does nobody around here _knock_?” Harry asked, his entire body flushing as he fumbled with the strings of his breeches and reached for the chemise he had earlier thrown onto the ground. “Isn't there – didn't anyone tell you I wasn't feeling well?”

“One of the servant girls did, but I didn't think it would be a big deal to come in and have a cuddle!” Niall wailed, fingers clenching at his face where he was still covering his eyes. “Normally it wouldn't be. Oh gods, Harry, I'm really sorry!” There was a beat of silence, Harry still attempting to catch his breath and wondering if his heart and weak constitution could handle more embarrassing moments like this, when Niall asked, “Do you want me to leave so you can finish?”

“No, thank you!” Harry yelled. “Gods, please. Just. Let's pretend this never happened?”

“Yes,” Niall said weakly. “Yes, you are such a smart prince.”

“Okay,” Harry mumbled. “This never happened.”

Niall removed his fingers from his eyes, dropping his hands to his sides and blushing hard. “So, I know we just said we were going to pretend that never happened, but were you watching Prince Zayn riding his horse? Couldn't you just call him up and ask him to ride you – ?”

“ _Niall_ – ”

Niall put his hands up in front of himself defensively. “Just wondering.”

“We haven't,” Harry trailed off, feeling silly and vulnerable. “We haven't done that. Yet.”

“Really?” Niall asked, eyes bulging. “Louis said you had. Described what he heard during the bedding ceremony in extraordinary detail, too. Everyone at court has been talking about how you two are such a good match.”

“Yes, well, Louis lied on our behalf,” Harry said. “I do think we are a good match, but Prince Zayn wanted to wait. So I'm waiting.”

“Very impatiently,” Niall remarked while Harry glowered. “You know what else they are saying at court?”

“No,” Harry sighed. “It's not like I haven't been here, isolated from court, for the past two weeks.”

“After your ceremonial bath and the morning after the bedding ceremony, everyone is calling you Prince Anaconda,” Niall laughed, the redness returning in Harry's cheeks as he stomped over to the bed and threw a pillow at Niall's face.

“That is – please, just stop talking,” Harry plead, Niall still chortling to himself. “Please tell me you are joking? This is so embarrassing.”

“I suppose it's better than Emperor Small Cock,” Niall said. “Louis said there was a warrior-king from one of the territories they conquered who had that nickname. Poor lad.”

Harry dragged his hands over his face. “Yes, well. A small blessing for that.” Harry collapsed onto the bed, still feeling vaguely mortified. “When did you get here?”

“About an hour ago,” Niall said, climbing onto the bed next to Harry and kicking his boots off with a sigh. “Long enough to grab a bite to eat. Rode up with Louis. Liam stayed at court.”

“Why?” Harry asked, frowning.

“He's been loved up, you remember those two girls from that night at your beach property?” Niall said. “Danielle and Sophia?”

“Loved up? With _both_ of them?” Harry gasped.

“The girls here are forward,” Niall answered with a shrug. “They don't seem to mind sharing and Matty told me that there's some sort of pool going around – all of the ladies at court are in competition over who will ultimately end up wedding Liam and myself. It's really bizarre. I was with Louis playing croquette one night and this girl named Barbara interrupted the game to ask me whether I enjoyed cunnilingus more than silly balls.”

“Oh gods.”

“Yup,” Niall shrugged. “Louis hasn't shut up about it for days.”

“Why, because you took her up on it?” Harry asked with a raised eyebrow. “Don't tell me you didn't.”

“It's hard to turn down!” Niall said. “She was extraordinarily pretty.”

“So I'm the one who is newly married, but I'm the only one in a state of sexual frustration,” Harry remarked. “Cheers to that.”

Niall pursed his lips and leaned against Harry's pillows, regarding Harry carefully. “Why does the Prince want to wait? Surely he must know the importance of consummating the marriage quickly. There will be talk otherwise.”

“Said he wants it to mean something,” Harry answered. “I think he's just shy.”

“Has he laid with anyone before?”

Harry frowned as he thought about it. “I'm not – I'm actually not sure.”

“Could ask Louis.”

Harry scoffed. “I don't think he would tell me. That's deeply personal. If Prince Zayn wanted me to know, he would just tell me himself.”

“Knowing Prince Zayn's history will keep you from unintentionally hurting him, though,” Niall said with a shrug. “Present it that way. See what Louis says then.”

Harry shrugged, holding his arms out for a hug. Niall grinned and wrapped himself around Harry, sighing against his chest. “I've missed you,” Harry said softly. “I feel as though it's been ages since it was just us two.”

“Because it has been,” Niall replied with a yawn. “How have you been keeping up?”

“Well,” Harry answered. “Prince Zayn is good to me. I couldn't ask for anything more.”

“I am pleased,” Niall said. “He's certainly well-regarded at court. I have heard nothing but good things about him and have been doing my part to sing your praises, as well.”

Harry snorted. “You don't need to do that.”

“I want to,” Niall replied quickly.

“And you have found court to be – ?”

“Dull,” Niall said. “As it always is. All of the parties have been fun, but I've missed you. Liam is always with those girls of his so I have been spending a good deal of time with Louis.”

“And how is he regarded at court?” Harry asked.

Niall shrugged. “It does seem to vary. I have not been able to get a good handle on what determines that, either. Matty has not been particularly forthcoming when it comes to all of that gossip – I've had to ask Taylor.”

“What does she say?”

“That it's complicated, mainly,” Niall answered. “She won't even tell me why she detests him so strongly. The closest I've gotten is, 'Louis knows what he did, and that's all there is to it.'”

“Sounds childish,” Harry mumbled.

“I'm sure it is,” Niall agreed. “We shouldn't worry ourselves with it. The reason behind all of their silliness will come to light eventually.”

“We'll certainly see,” Harry said, and he and Niall laid in bed together, chattering about everything and nothing in particular, until the sun fell and the moon rose high in the night sky.

  


Niall left several days later, Louis in tow, their combined presence in the vacation home serving as a source of warmth and comfort. Without them, Harry felt at a loss, even as he curled around Prince Zayn's increasingly familiar form every night, wondering as the sun sank and the moon made herself known whether Harry had been too hopeful, earlier, when they first met. Wondering if maybe the fire between the two of them had already burned out, their affection instead like cooling embers. Because Prince Zayn said he would lay with Harry when he loved him, and Harry knew that he could not rush the Prince, but they seemed at a standstill nonetheless, even with their steady banter and Prince Zayn's warm hands tracing teasing patterns on Harry's skin in his sleep, every press of his fingertips a reminder of all that Harry wanted but couldn't quite act upon.

The day they awoke to return to court, Harry felt vaguely like a failure. His comfort with his husband's language had greatly improved, at least to the point where he no longer stumbled over the unfamiliar conjugations, and Harry spent most of his days thinking of Prince Zayn instead of worrying over his family and the land that was now his home, but Harry could not help but feel as though he did not accomplish his duty as a peace betrothal and as a husband. Harry spent the carriage ride back to Jinan in a sulk he could not shake, brushing off Prince Zayn's attempts to start conversation and keeping to his side of the carriage, the fabric covering thrown back as Harry stared forlornly at the scenery he had hardly paid attention to on the ride up.

Harry hardly even noticed the children waiting for them at the capital's high walls, not until a pear landed on the carriage floor, Harry's eyes darting quickly and making out a girl with a baby strapped to her back standing on the side of the road, a triumphant gleam in her eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much fluff, you almost get the sense everything's bound to go to hell soon. Right?


	6. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When will you allow yourself to see it, Harry? Everything you need to know is right in front of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Rue, Emily and Grace for reading over this bit, and to Fee for their endless help and encouragement. I also apologize for this chapter taking approximately forever.

Unfortunately, the sense of discontent that hovered over Harry at the end of his honeymoon did not leave him the moment they returned to life at court. If anything, Harry's sense of discomfort intensified, as he and the Prince were separated and Harry was shown to his own private chambers on the fourth floor of the palace. The servants encouraged Harry to make the space to his own liking, fluttering around him as he went through his assortment of robes and asked for more artwork to be brought in, but underneath the facade of calmness, Harry's insides were roiling. Harry was not sure what the living arrangements were for King Yaser and Queen Patricia, but when Harry's father was alive, he and the Queen always took their meals together and retired to the same quarters. Was Harry expecting too much when he assumed that he and Prince Zayn would be staying in the same room as they had during their honeymoon? How else would the Prince come to love and care for him if they spent so much of their private hours apart? It hurt Harry's head to dwell much on it, so he tried to push the entire line of thought out of his mind.

In some ways, Harry's life at court was the same as it had always been. Niall and Louis were appointed the Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, and Harry's personal rooms were not all that dissimilar from the ones he had been accustomed to in his own kingdom, although infinitely better furnished, all of his lounges made of rich leather, the hangings over his canopy bed devilishly soft to the touch. Harry was put in charge of the sort of meaningless daily tasks that are only ever entrusted to royals without any true valued skills – entertainment of visiting noblemen and emissaries from the territories, mostly, although Queen Patricia also seemed to think Harry had an eye for art, so she asked for his assistance in patronage and commissioning several new pieces, mostly sculptures to decorate the courtyard. He also struck up a friendship with a young Professor from the university who came to tutor him on matters of history twice a week. Harry was still constantly flanked by both Niall and Liam more often than not, although King Yaser was sufficiently impressed by Liam's military training to have him run a few drills with some of the soldiers stationed about Jinan, and Niall had somehow become every nobleman and woman's favorite person at court and was constantly in demand for a game of cards or a horse ride out to some distant property.

Everyone was polite to Harry upon his arrival at court and he was certainly in high demand, but beyond Prince Zayn's own circle of friends, Harry felt like an outsider looking in, particularly as Prince Zayn settled into his own pattern. Save for the large communal dinners, Harry barely saw the Prince at all, and Harry hardly knew how to change that or even where to begin. The Prince was consistently busy and simply did not have the time to go to Harry's bedchamber in the first few weeks following the honeymoon, although every so often he did send a servant up with a flower and a gift, or with a sweetly worded note that made Harry's knees buckle. The small tokens were just enough to keep Harry enamored, but the small, pragmatic side of his personality was also beginning to lose faith that they were ever going to consummate their marriage at all. The Prince's continued absence insinuated that he did not seem to think it was a priority, and Harry was not going to go to Matty to schedule a cursed appointment just to bed his husband.

Instead, Harry did what he did best. He sulked.

 

The endless heat of summer finally broke, and the first stirrings of fall descended upon the capital. Briskness crept into the air, and in long horse rides Harry took with Niall and Liam through the city streets, Harry marveled as the men and women in loose-fitting linen clothing began carrying warmer shawls and exchanged leather sandals for sturdier boots. Harry's own wardrobe was replaced as well, Harry awakening one morning to several servants going through his armoire and adding navy, crimson and jade robes, one of the attending women murmuring that they were all brought in courtesy of the Prince while Harry ran his fingers over the soft cotton material.

Harry dined with Louis privately later that day, Louis' eyes running over Harry's new articles of clothing with a small, pleased expression dancing across his face. “New robes from Zayn, then?” Louis asked, blue eyes sparkling as he sipped his tea.

“Yes, they arrived this morning. Do you like them?”

“Of course I do,” Louis answered primly. “He always keeps abreast of all of the latest fashions – you will be the talk of all of court, as usual. Have you gone to thank him?”

Harry shook his head while poking at his bowl of rice. “I still don't quite know how to make the time to see him alone.”

Louis rolled his eyes and made a face, scrunching his nose and settling his cup of tea back onto the table. “Go through Matty.”

“That doesn't seem strange to you? That I have to schedule time to see my husband with _Matty_?”

Louis pursed his lips before sighing. “It's what I have had to do, unfortunately. Zayn's just been so bloody preoccupied. I know you've heard the rumors – that King Yaser might be stepping down soon and leaving the task of daily rule to Zayn. I anticipate it must be true because Zayn has never had this level of responsibility before, and he's doing a fine job juggling everything. But that reminds me – I wanted to speak with you about my engagement.”

Harry frowned. “What about it?”

Harry honestly forgot that Louis was betrothed more often than not, and popular sentiment at court was that Louis forgot about it often, as well. Louis and Eleanor were a power couple if Harry ever saw one, but it was obvious that there was no spark there – they were cordial, friendly even, but it was far from a love match. They both had wealth, success, and popularity, which was all that anyone could truly hope for, so Harry did not understand why Louis whined about the arrangement whenever it came up, particularly when Louis could always procure a mistress after the wedding anyway. Harry could not even get Prince Zayn to _talk_ to him and Eleanor and Louis dined together privately every day, so Harry had very little sympathy.

“I spoke with the Prince briefly on several matters yesterday, and he wants me to start planning the wedding in-depth now,” Louis replied. “He's gotten it into his mind that Eleanor and I should have a winter wedding. I wanted to see if you could get him to stop harassing me about it.”

“He doesn't even speak to me besides pleasantries during meals,” Harry scoffed. “How could I convince him to delay your wedding? Because that's what you want, yes? For him to delay the wedding?”

“Of course it is,” Louis answered stiffly. “This entire betrothal was the brainchild of King Yaser. Zayn knows my feelings on the matter – he cannot have already forgotten. But if he has, you can remind him. Use your charm.”

“Use my charm,” Harry repeated. “How?”

Louis stared at Harry, the downturn of his lips clearly delineating how unimpressed he was with Harry in this moment. “Do I have to spell it out in graphic detail?”

Harry laughed his loud, belly laugh before clamping his hands over his mouth. “You cannot be serious.”

“Why wouldn't I be? It's essentially your duty – the one power tool you have at your disposal. Have you honestly given up hope that he will lay with you?” Louis inquired, squinting at Harry.

Harry lifted a shoulder and busied himself with the food on his plate. “Perhaps?”

“Harry – ”

“He's busy,” Harry interrupted. “He's busy – he has important things to tend to, you've said so already. And I'm just _here_. It's been almost two months since our honeymoon, and I'm just here, sitting with you and Niall and Liam day after day or brushing up on my history or tittering with dignitaries' wives because nobody trusts me with more important tasks. I am bored out of my mind and the Prince doesn't even ask if I want to join him on his morning rides – why would I assume that he wants me in his bed?”

“But you aren't fighting for him, either,” Louis pointed out. “You were eager for his affection when you first met him. Maybe he believes that you're no longer interested in pursuing that sort of relationship. Zayn always assumes that people do not want him for the right reasons.”

Harry shook his head. “I don't know, Louis. He must know how I feel. He cannot believe that I am so fickle.”

“He could have forgotten,” Louis answered delicately. “You just need to remind him, at least before all of these silly rumors get out of hand.”

Harry grimaced, rolling his eyes and turning away from Louis' beseeching gaze. Harry was used to the power of suggestions – Harry was always guaranteed to be the subject of rumors at any court. And Harry had not heard anything particularly malicious, sheltered as he was by Louis' abrasive personality and Niall's winsome charm, but a few items of chatter had made their way to Harry's ears nonetheless. Most tellingly, several noblemen had begun whispering their belief that Harry and Prince Zayn had not consummated their marriage despite Louis' insistence to the contrary. Liam, who had been in the presence of these noblemen as they spoke behind gloved hands, very quickly shut the entire line of conversation down, but Harry knew better than anyone else the permanence of hearsay. Harry was not sure how something so intensely private and ridiculously _true_ had gotten out there, unsure if someone just got lucky in a supposition or whether a member of their inner circle had talked, but either way Harry did not know what he could do to dispel the gossip. He just did his best to ignore it.

Louis sulked for a few moments before shaking his head and smiling fondly at Harry. “You know what we both need, Haz? A trip to Abbas.”

“That property of yours?”

“Well, technically it's Zayn's, but I like to pretend as though it's mine,” Louis answered. “But yes, we should go. It's out in the wild country – it should only take a day's ride on horseback, maybe a half-day if we use the back roads. We can get away from the banality of court and all of its silly expectations.”

Harry hummed, unconvinced. “I don't want to appear as though I'm running away from my problems.”

“If you were running away from your problems, you would just live at your house by the beach and say fuck all to everything here at court,” Louis answered. “And no one would blame you, truly. It's the reason why Zayn got you that property in the first place, as something you could fall back on should the marriage not work. But this would be a short excursion. Down to Abbas for several days then right back. There are hot springs nestled a few miles away and the food is superb.”

“Hot springs?” Harry asked, perking up in spite of himself while Louis grinned slow and sly.

“Yes, dear Harold. _Hot springs_.”

“My name isn't Harold,” Harry mumbled for what had to be the millionth time while Louis beckoned one of the servants over, whispering into her ear.

“Small details, love,” Louis replied once he excused the servant. “But I'll arrange everything with Kevin. We'll leave in a few days time, so ask your girls to pack lightly for you.”

Harry nodded, smiling at Louis as he stood and excused himself from Harry's table, a slight spring in his step. Harry could understand the sentiment, and for the first time in weeks, Harry was excited about his life again.

 

Harry was not sure whether his and Louis' trip to Abbas was supposed to be a secret, but either way he did not divulge the details of the excursion with anyone besides his servants. He did not even disclose any information to neither Niall nor Liam. It was exhilarating, planning something with Louis and finding himself mesmerized by the way Louis' blue eyes always lit up when he talked about this modest slice of property bordering one of their conquered territories, a home essentially surrounded by wilderness and totally at its mercy. Louis explained that his fondness for Abbas sprung from the fact that he grew up nearby, the Tomlinson family the rare breed of noblemen who rejected the pretense of court in order to live on the fringe of society. They were an ancient house, wealthy, dynamic, and always close to the throne, a quiet power that Louis said he always found a bit intimidating growing up, particularly when he believed himself to be nothing more than an orphan taken in by an aging couple incapable of having their own children. Louis would of course end up going the other way, forsaking a life in the woods and instead ingratiating himself at court and truly flourishing there, but it was clear to Harry that Louis' untamed personality sprung from the formative years he spent among nature, running through the thicket and spending hours upon hours with wild dogs and feral cats.

Louis and Harry made hushed plans to leave Jinan the following week. Kevin, who quickly established himself as Harry's favorite and most trusted servant, had already brought down several horses from the stable for them to ride, and had also arranged for Harry's favorite robes to be packed. All Harry and Louis needed to do was pick the horses up by the barn, at which point another servant would help Harry disguise his hair so that they would be untroubled during their ride up to Abbas. Harry and Louis were already down on the castle grounds, running their hands through the mare's manes and laughing and joking with each other about how they planned to spend their days of leisure when they heard light footsteps fall into place behind them.

“Where are you going?” a voice called, Harry and Louis both turning toward the exclamation in comic unison. Prince Zayn was walking briskly towards them, dressed in loose breeches and a sweat-darkened chemise, clearly recently returned from his morning ride. Louis' cheeks pinked at the sight of the Prince but he jutted his chin out defiantly nonetheless, grasping the reins of his mare tightly enough that the horse whinnied in annoyance.

“We are going to ride out to Abbas,” Louis said. “We hope to reach the grounds by nightfall. Has there been some sort of problem, Your Highness?”

Prince Zayn, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down at Louis. “Were you not going to ask my permission before spiriting my husband away from court?”

“I wasn't 'spiriting him away' – ”

“Then why are you slinking around the barnyard like a common thief?” Prince Zayn countered, clenching his fists as his nostrils flared. “I was asking all over for you. You know we had a meeting with Matty this morning.”

“Oh, did we? It must have slipped my mind,” Louis answered airily. “I did not want to needlessly trouble you. It isn't the first meeting I've skipped out on, so I assumed that you would hardly miss my presence at all.”

“Pardon?” Prince Zayn squawked.

“Harry and I just planned to go away for a few days,” Louis continued, almost as though he hadn't heard Prince Zayn at all. “I didn't think you would notice our absence.”

“Louis – ” Prince Zayn started, voice low and dangerous.

“Just a few days – a quick jaunt,” Louis all but yelled over the Prince. “Down to Abbas and right back. Just to get Prince Harry's mind in a good place.”

“Is it not in a good place?” Prince Zayn asked, eyes finally darting over to where Harry was leaning against the barn's entryway.

“Perhaps if you were more present and spent less time playing endless war games with Matty, you would already know the answer to that,” Louis replied. “So. Do we have your permission to leave?”

“No,” Prince Zayn scoffed. “Don't do this right now, Louis. You know why – you know the reason I have been distant, and I apologize. _Please_.”

“Well,” Louis said, inhaling sharply. “I want to go to Abbas. I – I need a break. From court, from the endless diplomacy and all of these silly, baseless rumors – ”

“From _me_?” Prince Zayn inquired, cocking an eyebrow. Harry took a step back, feeling like an intruder in an argument he had no business witnessing, almost as though he had stumbled into the middle of a lovers' quarrel, which was a ridiculous analogy and yet the only one that sprung to Harry's mind.

“I did not say that,” Louis scowled, eyes narrowing. “Please do not put words into my mouth, _Your Highness_.”

The Prince rolled his eyes, furiously chewing the inside of his cheek as he tapped his foot against the grass. Harry looked between Louis and Prince Zayn, absolutely convinced that there was some huge part of the conversation that he was missing, that they were purposefully not letting him in on. It was far from the first time in his life that Harry felt as though others were talking over him, but it still felt like a blow against his solar plexus, knowing that these two people he cared for so deeply did not trust him enough to share whatever it was that was making them speak in circles.

“If you don't want me to go, Your Highness,” Harry began, voice sounding worn and gravely once he finally opened his mouth. He cleared his throat before continuing. “If you don't want Louis and myself to go to Abbas, we shall most certainly abide by your will.”

“You are allowed to go wherever you please,” Prince Zayn answer softly, finally wrenching his gaze from the silent staring contest he was engaging in with Louis. “I would just ask that you check with me before ensconcing off with Louis. Perhaps I would like to go as well – ”

“We were not ensconcing,” Louis spat. “Just because _you_ are not getting any – ”

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry hissed, redness dotting his cheeks while the Prince coughed and pointedly looked away, the tips of his own ears turning scarlet. “I told you that in confidence.”

Louis' snarl was enough to send Harry retreating against the barn doors. “Yes, and isn't it interesting that I've had to learn all of these facts from you and not from my own brother?” Louis finally dropped the horse's reins, tossing his head back and drawing in a deep breath. He held his shoulders high, his entire posture so regal Harry almost felt lowly in comparison. “You don't have to worry about me playing with your secondhand toys, Zayn,” Louis said as he began his trek back towards the castle, his gait light even though it was clear he wanted to stomp and throw a tantrum. “He's all yours to break.”

Prince Zayn watched Louis retreat with a grimace before running his hands over his face. This close, Harry could see the puffiness around his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands that spelled out the Prince's deep-seated fatigue. “I – I apologize for quarreling with him in front of you.”

“Do not apologize, Your Highness,” Harry answered softly, rubbing his elbow and shaking his head minutely. “You were right – we should have asked your permission before just leaving.”

“He's been impatient with me for weeks,” Prince Zayn mumbled. “He always pulls stunts like this when he is upset. I should have seen it coming.”

It took everything in Harry's power to hold his tongue, to not interject that _Harry_ had been upset with the Prince for weeks as well. That Harry had felt disappointed, neglected. Intensely lonely. Harry wondered how someone so courteous and intelligent could be so oblivious to the discontent within the inner circle surrounding him, but perhaps it was unfair for Harry to have such grandiose expectations out of a spouse. Prince Zayn was in service to an entire country. Maybe Harry was being selfish in thinking that the Prince had the time to tend to Harry and coddle him. Prince Zayn looked exhausted enough without that additional task weighing down his shoulders. It wouldn't be the first time Harry's expectations out of a partner exceeded what was humanly feasible.

“He feels as though you no longer value his opinion, Your Highness,” Harry said instead, curious whether Prince Zayn would even pick up on the doublespeak. “As though you have abandoned him.”

Prince Zayn's glower deepened. “Why in the world would the Duke think that? Because I asked that he serve in _your_ Bedchamber? The two of you are fast friends, everyone knows – I thought I was doing what he wanted.”

“I think it goes deeper than that, Your Highness,” Harry replied, feeling tired and checked out of the entire conversation. “I obviously do not know the details. Please just talk to him. When you have the time.”

Prince Zayn sighed before nodding. “Yes, yes. Of course – you're right. And – and we can go to Abbas, even. If that's his will – we shall go out to the wild country. I'll find a way. Make the time.”

Harry smiled and shifted his weight from foot to foot, rubbing the back of his neck as he examined Prince Zayn once more through his eyelashes. It felt like a lifetime since the last time they held a private conversation that was not in rushed whispers over dinner without servants, no fellow Gentlemen, and the realization seemed to hit Prince Zayn simultaneously, the Prince coughing awkwardly as he played with the hem of his shift. “Do you – would. Um. Would you like to take your midday meal with me?” Prince Zayn asked, running his right hand nervously over the slight stubble decorating his chin. “Matty and I were going to discuss reports from the Sawsan territory but you are more than welcome to sit in and dine with us. I know you have been studying all of this with that young Professor, but this could be nice, too. And I – uh. I miss taking private meals with you like we did in the mountains.”

“I typically spend my midday meal with your sisters, Your Highness,” Harry answered ruefully, although Harry did not enjoy anything quite as much as gossiping with the young Malik Princesses. “I – I forgot in my haste to go down to Abbas with the Duke. But perhaps later this week?”

“Yes,” Prince Zayn said. “Yes, of course, Prince Harry.”

Harry nodded, walking determinedly up to the Prince and pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek, relishing in the distantly familiar smell of cut grass and sweat that clung to his skin.

“I will be awaiting your call,” Harry said, tugging on a tassel hanging from Prince Zayn's shirt, and feeling like maybe all hope was not lost when the Prince smiled shyly as Harry walked away.

 

The next few days passed in a rosy haze, Harry feeling in far better spirits than he had in weeks. Prince Zayn extended several invitations for Harry to dine with him over the next fortnight, and Harry eagerly leaped on every opportunity to spend time with his husband, even if it was for tea and desserts while Prince Zayn and Matty covered subjects Harry could only half follow. The slinky rumors regarding Harry and the Prince's relationship did not abate, indeed they only seemed to intensify, but when Harry was with Prince Zayn, their fingers interlocked while Matty laid out maps for them to examine, it was as though nothing else mattered.

Louis, however, continued to be extremely annoyed with Prince Zayn for reasons he only partially explained to Harry, turning down invitations to go riding or dine together with thinly veiled excuses that read far more like Louis telling the Prince to fuck off. It was only after the Autumn Equinox that Prince Zayn suggested that they take a carriage to Abbas, and Louis confided in Harry that his first instinct was to say “No,” even though his chest was still packed from his and Harry's foiled excursion.

“Why?” Harry asked, vaguely horrified. They were out in the courtyard together practicing their archery. Louis was really quite a skilled bowman, whereas Harry lacked the sort of basic coordination to even hold his bow properly. Louis admitted that he primarily wanted Harry to join him so that Harry could stand around looking dashing and serve as moral support. “You've been wanting to go to Abbas for months.”

“He's just going to invite everyone I hate,” Louis retorted, pulling the string of his bow back and frowning determinedly at the mark several yards away. “He'll bring along Eleanor and force us to sleep in the same room, which is all right, I suppose. She _is_ a fantastic lay. But then he'll invite that conniving snake, Taylor. Matty is fine enough, save for his detestable taste in women, and I love and cherish Liam and Niall, but I wanted to go alone with you for a reason.”

“We can go alone some other time,” Harry replied as Louis hit the mark with a triumphant smile, some of the servants clapping politely. “But you have to admit this will be a prime opportunity for me to spend much deserved time with the Prince.”

Louis laughed. “Yes, maybe getting out to the wild country will finally loosen up his frigid libido. The gods know he needs it.”

“Louis,” Harry hissed as his face turned crimson, gesturing around at the servants. “Please.”

“Don't worry about them,” Louis answered with a shrug. “They have all sworn an oath to keep our secrets.”

“I _know_ that – it's the principle of the matter,” Harry replied. “But I suppose we'll see. We won't even be at Abbas for a full week. Given the current trend, my guess is that nothing will happen.”

“Five days is plenty of time,” Louis said. “More than enough time for me to be annoyed with everyone but you, I'm sure.”

Harry laughed as Louis reached for another arrow, clenching his jaw and aiming at the target once more. Harry couldn't help but wonder who he was thinking of when he let the bow fly, the head of the arrow sinking into the wooden target with a satisfying crunch.

 

Louis ended up being right, of course, and Eleanor and Taylor joined Harry, Prince Zayn, Louis, Liam, Niall, and Matty in a carriage ride to Abbas that ended up taking a significant portion of the day. Abbas itself was in the middle of a dense forest, the trees so tall and thickly clumped together that Harry could hardly make out the dirt road as they traveled. They arrived at nightfall, the stars little pinpricks of light in between gaps in the trees' canopy, and the snarls of wild dogs were like some sort of morbid hymn through the darkness. Harry grabbed one of his own traveling bags and followed their party into the house, a modest two-story brick building that was delightfully warm and cozy following the long day's ride.

Their group split off as servants directed them past the main entertainment room, and Harry was pleased to discover that he was once more sharing personal quarters with Prince Zayn, the Prince blushing prettily when he entered the room behind Harry. The main bedroom itself was nothing to rant or rave over, sparsely decorated so that there was nothing beyond the bed itself and chests to store their clothes with a single solitary window that overlooked miles and miles of forest. Now that he was here, Harry was rather baffled that Louis was so enamored with the property, but Harry had never particularly cared for forests, his own homeland essentially one long forest in and of itself. Two female servants helped Harry change into his bedclothes and he fell into a deep slumber not long after, not even stirring when Prince Zayn crept into bed behind him and wrapped his arms around Harry's waist.

 

Harry woke the next morning at daybreak, taking his bath and dining with Niall and Liam before settling in the entertainment room with a book. Niall and Liam pulled out an old chess set they found in their own rooms, Harry sitting behind Liam and uselessly interjecting his advice while the other two boys tried to get him to hush.

Louis came down the main staircase at midday, hair rumpled and very simply dressed with a leather satchel thrown across one shoulder. He sat down in the lounge beside Harry, resting his head on Harry's shoulder and tapping a rhythm on the crook of Harry's elbow, completely distracting Harry from the book he had been struggling with.

“Hm?” Harry hummed, turning his head to look at Louis. “Are you all right?”

“Peachy,” Louis yawned. “I was wondering if you would like to go on a horse ride with me?”

“My bum hurts.” Louis' face lit up and Harry laughed. “No! Not from _that_. We just slept. I meant from that long carriage ride.”

“Oh,” Louis frowned. “Well. I suppose we could walk? It's just that a ride would get us there so much faster.”

“Get us where?”

“It's a secret,” Louis whispered. “But it's your pick. Would you rather walk or see if we can get some horses?”

“I would be rather afraid of riding in between such thick trees.”

“A leisurely stroll it is!” Louis exclaimed. “Come on, then.”

“But – ”

“Come _on_ ,” Louis said, standing and grabbing Harry by the hand while Niall and Liam looked on curiously.

“Is it the hot springs?”

“No, better,” Louis answered, pulling at Harry's arms and making a displeased noise when Harry refused to cooperate. “Up, up, love. We'll see the rest of you for supper.”

Harry finally stood and waved halfheartedly at Liam and Niall, who seemed to simultaneously roll their eyes and return to their game of chess. Harry frowned at them but followed Louis out of the side of the house, immediately pulling his robes tighter around himself when the chill hit his skin.

“Why is it so cold out in these forests?” Harry asked, falling into a vigorous stroll besides Louis, who actually walked quite quickly considering his slighter build. “We're not at a high elevation, are we?”

“No, we're not,” Louis answered. “These forests are just always chilly. We're lucky that it is not raining, actually.”

Harry hummed, trying his best not to run into trees as their boots crunched on the brush. “So, can you tell me now where we're going?”

“A cave,” Louis answered, his tone brusque even as he seemingly vibrated with excitement.

Harry blinked at him. “A cave? _Why_?”

“Because there's something I want to show you and it's in a cave.”

“You didn't even bring a lantern,” Harry pointed out. “How are you going to show me anything when caves are dark?”

“They aren't very deep in the cave,” Louis retorted.

“They?”

“The something I want to show you.”

Harry laughed. “You're unbelievable. How much further do we have to walk?”

“Dunno, twenty minutes or so. It really isn't that far from the house.”

Harry fell silent, mind racing as he tried to figure out what in the world Louis could possibly be so eager to show Harry. Knowing Louis, it truly could be anything, but Harry also had the sense that whatever it was, it was important, and it was also key that Harry was the only one who witnessed it.

The trees began to thin slightly and Louis veered westward off of whatever path he had been mentally following, feet quick and sure as he led Harry toward a thick spot of growth. Harry's mouth dropped as he finally made out the cavern's opening, the earth's rock splitting apart and beckoning exploration with its glistening darkness. The entry itself was only slightly taller than Harry, and the entire top of the cave was covered over with moss and cancerous brush that fell low over the opening. When Harry held his breath in wonder, he swore he could hear the soft trill of running water coming from inside.

“What's in there?” Harry asked, voice low and respectful, the cave seeming to command a sort of quiet reverence. Harry could not explain it if he tried, but he could feel something powerful lurking in that blackness, his bones aching with the desire to crawl inside and learn its secrets.

“You won't believe me until I show you,” Louis said, dropping his satchel onto the ground before shucking off his robes and removing his boots with deft fingers. “Watch my things, will you, love? I'll be back in a moment.”

Harry frowned but nodded as Louis threw his hair back and stepped into the inky darkness, his heavy footfalls echoing as he entered the cave. Harry huffed out a nervous breath before plopping himself on the ground besides Louis' things, gathering them into his lap and waiting impatiently.

Louis returned several minutes later, a spiderweb caught in his hair and some sort of giant stone clutched in between both hands. He was huffing under the exertion and when he emerged from the cave, he placed the stone delicately in Harry's lap on top of his belongings, Harry frowning as he examined the rock. Although the more intensely Harry examined the stone, the clearer it was that it was _not_ a rock. Emerald with flecks of bronze, it almost seemed to _pulse_ with power in Harry's lap. Harry had never seen anything quite like it.

“It's an egg,” Louis explained, brushing the spiderweb out of his locks.

“What sort of beast?” Harry asked. “A rare bird?”

“No,” Louis answered with a quirk of his eyebrows. “Try again, love.”

Harry shook his head. “I – I honestly have no clue, Louis.”

“What does it feel like to hold a dragon's egg in your lap, love?”

Harry jerked his head up, goggling at Louis. “You cannot – this isn't – _dragons are extinct_.”

“Really?” Louis grinned, teeth sharp and predatory. “Then how is it that you are holding one in your lap?”

“But they died out ages ago,” Harry said. “I mean, everyone knows the tales of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons, and even then – ”

“Harry,” Louis interrupted. “You told us all over dinner that direwolves existed, and you remember the shock that it registered. We've all been taught it's an old wives' tale.”

“Yes,” Harry nodded, gulping as he looked down at the egg in his lap. He still somehow felt drawn to it, mesmerized by its latent power.

“This is your moment to be shocked and awed,” Louis continued. “I have two more eggs in that cave.”

“I – my gods.”

Louis nodded, sitting down on the ground next to Harry and leaning his head on Harry's shoulder. “The Queen gave them to me.”

“I thought the Queen did not – well. I thought she did not acknowledge you publicly?”

“Oh, she doesn't,” Louis replied breezily. “But a few months after I first came to court, she summoned me and asked if we could dine privately. I was absolutely terrified, and for good reason. She warned me that she would not take kindly to any threats to the throne on my part, and I assured her that Zayn was, and always will be, my main priority. With that out of the way, she told me that she had a gift for me. She explained that I would need to venture out to Abbas, and that there I would find something she hid for me when she was pregnant. A gift that would guarantee my safety and protection. So I came out here with Zayn, and followed her instructions to this cave. You can imagine my surprise when I, grappling through the dark, came upon a crate, three dragon eggs swaddled within it.” Louis shrugged and licked his lips. “I do understand how delicate Queen Patricia's position was at the time. I could not imagine being a sixteen-year-old girl, betrothed to someone you detest, alone and pregnant with yet another man's son. The royal family did a good job of burying the scandal, but the shame is still there. So I really have never faulted her for sending me off to the Tomlinson family. It truly was the best thing she could have done for me, considering the available options. The Tomlinsons guaranteed me a life of comfort and an excellent education. But Queen Patricia was right. This gift – this, more than anything else, will mean that I will always be secure.”

“You're going to hatch them?” Harry asked, feeling absolutely gobsmacked. “Do you even know how?”

“Prince Zayn and I read up on it,” Louis answered. “There are texts that elucidate the process.”

“And you are confident that it is going to work? Even though you are not . . .” Harry trailed off while Louis pursed his lips.

“The blood is still there,” Louis said, his gaze unreadable as he looked up at Harry. “I might not be recognized as a royal, but I am still my mother's son.”

Harry hummed, looking down at the egg sitting in between his thighs. It was heavy, warmer than it had any reason to be. “Why did you show me this?”

“To impress you, mainly,” Louis answered with a tiny self-effacing smile. “Is it working?”

Harry gawked at Louis. “Are you joking?”

“No,” Louis said slowly. “Although I wish I was.”

“Is this – ” Harry started, feeling suddenly and unmistakably uncomfortable. “Were you – argh. Are you flirting with me?”

“Only a little,” Louis answered, pulling his boots and robes from out of Harry's lap and refusing to meet Harry's gaze. “I think Zayn is being stupid and I am really quite fond of you. It's dumb that he's married to you and yet he's not _doing_ anything about it.”

“What are you saying, really?”

“I'm not saying anything,” Louis replied with insincere casualness. “Forget I even mentioned anything out of the ordinary.”

“But you – ” Harry started, whining when the words seemed to get stuck in his throat. “You can't _do_ this to me, Louis.”  
“Do what?” Louis asked, his face stricken with embarrassment.

“Taunt me,” Harry replied scrubbing at his face when the first threat of tears began to prick his eyes. “I have confided my dissatisfaction with you, and now it feels as though you are throwing everything back into my face. Is that why you wanted us to go to Abbas alone – so you could bed me away from the prying eyes of everyone else? Do you know what they used to _say_ about me at my old court? Everyone thought I spent too much time _on my back_. Even the Princess I was betrothed to – she called me a swine, said that she would never let me lay a finger on her, not when my hands were so sullied. And I have worked _so hard_ not to give into temptation – to be a good spouse and keep my hands to myself.” Harry took a long, shuddering breath, laughing at himself when a tear track dropped onto the hard, scaly shell of the dragon egg. “And I know you do not mean to insult me, but that's how I _feel_ , Louis. I love you like a brother and that is _it_. I refuse to let it be more.”

“I'm sorry,” Louis whispered, reaching up and wiping Harry's face with the sleeve of his shirt. Harry sniffled pitifully and jerked away from Louis' hands, but Louis cooed at him softly and Harry relaxed into the touch, loathing himself for thinking that it did feel nice. “I honestly didn't think – I just wanted you to know that I do care for you. And that if things with the Prince do not work out to either of your liking . . . well. I'm just here.”

“You're betrothed and your marriage to Eleanor is going to happen whether you like it or not,” Harry retorted. “Please do not pretend as though we can forsake our duties and live out some delusional fairytale together. It's preposterous.”

“I just want us to both be happy,” Louis scoffed. “Is that too much to ask for?”

“You know it is,” Harry answered. “You – better than anyone. This entire life we lead – it's nothing more than a chess match. There's no happiness to be gained. We do our best to thrive and that's it. We cannot hope for anything more than that.”

“So you've given up the belief that you can be happy with Zayn?” Louis asked, eyes sharp and assessing. “Now it's just a matter of doing what you can to _thrive_ with Zayn?”

Harry opened his mouth before shutting it with a clap. “Did the Prince put you onto this?” Harry asked, feeling rage thrum through his fingertips. “Is this another one of your cruel tests? To gauge my loyalty – see whether I've become an apostate without Prince Zayn's affection?”

“Harry – ”

“Take me back,” Harry demanded, stuffing the dragon egg into Louis' satchel before shoving it into Louis' lap and standing. Harry fought down the urge to kick Louis, firmly reminding himself that violence would only make himself feel better in the short term. “Take me back to the house. I don't want to speak to either of you.”

“The Prince did not put me onto this – ”

“I don't believe you!” Harry laughed, feeling so confused and lost and _alone_ that a fresh set of tears sprung unbidden down his cheeks. “I – I thought you were my friend, and I thought the Prince at least trusted me, if nothing else. So _please_. Just take me back to the house.”

Louis nodded once, heaving his satchel over his shoulder. He and Harry walked back to the house in tense silence.

 

Harry forsook dinner with the rest of the company that night and instead holed himself in an unoccupied room on the west side of the house, staring forlornly out at the purple sky as his mind skittered over the day's events. He hardly even noticed when Caroline entered the room, only blinking dazed and slow when she came to sit beside him. She was so beautiful in the moonlight, the bronze of her skin only accentuated by the weak lighting, and the dress she was donning was the bright purple of a fairy slipper flower. She wound her fingers through Harry's hair, her touch so soothing Harry sank into it, letting Caroline guide his head into her lap.

“I wouldn't trust him, you know,” Caroline cooed as her nails scratched lightly across his scalp. “That Tomlinson boy. Although, to be fair, I wouldn't trust _anyone_.”

“Even you?” Harry countered, his heart beating hard and fast in his chest as he tried to choke back another set of tears. “Why are you here?”

“I just wanted to see you, love,” Caroline murmured. “How have you been coping with everything? How is Prince Zayn?”

Harry sighed. “For some reason, I feel as though you already know the answer to both of those questions. Have you been staying at court, disguised as one of those cats Prince Zayn likes to keep around? Or do you just have friends who tell you what you need to know?”

“What have I told you about a lady and her secrets, love?” Caroline tsked. “One day you would think you might start paying better attention?”

“I do pay attention,” Harry snapped.

“You most certainly do not,” Caroline replied. “Otherwise you would know better than to let that boy into your head.”

“He's my friend,” Harry replied, aiming for defensiveness but lacking the conviction. He was so tired, and Caroline's scalp massage felt so nice. “Besides Niall and Liam, he has been the only one to consistently protect me and my interests at court. He has ever since we met.”

Caroline stilled her hands and Harry turned over in her lap to look at her as she rolled her eyes. “Yes, _of course_. That's why he played games with you for weeks after your first encounter and tried to leave you the minute you disembarked.” Caroline's teeth glinted white and menacing when she added, “He's a threat, Harry.”

“Why? What would he _possibly_ have to gain from acting against me?”

“Someone doesn't have to be actively plotting against you in order to be considered a threat, Harry,” Caroline pointed out.

“Please elaborate, then.”

Caroline shook her head and for once she actually looked a little apologetic. “You know I cannot, love. But there is nothing to be gained by considering his ridiculous cave-side proposition.”

Harry blanched. “You were listening.”

Caroline smiled, incisors predatory. “You knew this already.”

Harry slumped against Caroline's thighs and squeezed his eyes shut, desperately wishing this long, difficult day would just _end_ already, that he could fall against his mattress and sleep until his heart and his bones ceased to ache. “Then you also understand why I am so confused by it?”

“Because you are young,” Caroline replied, carelessly tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Because you fear that the Prince does not love you, and the Duke has always been nice. But Prince Zayn is not intentionally freezing you out. He's just a confused little boy, just like you.”

“And how can you even be sure?” Harry moaned, bottom lip trembling as he bit down on the urge to throw a massive tantrum. “How can you be so sure when he does not even acknowledge me unless someone else prompts him first? Are you stalking him as well?”

Caroline narrowed her eyes, cocking her head and considering Harry so intensely that Harry felt goosebumps spread across his arms. “I never knew you to be so enamored with another person before, Harry.”

“Do you find me insincere?”

“No,” Caroline answered slowly. “I am just trying to understand it.”

“Prince Zayn is my husband,” Harry retorted defensively. “Of course I am going to be enamored. What more is there to understand?”

“No, that's not true and we both know it,” Caroline snapped. “You never gave more than a second's thought to that girl you were betrothed to, and you never loved me or any of the others that went tumbling into your bed. Is it because his face is so beautiful? Or is it because he hasn't laid with you and it is driving you mad with lust? Either way, it does not explain why you would even spend more than a second considering sleeping with the rat.”

Harry bristled. “Don't call Louis a rat.”

Caroline pursed her lips. “The weasel, then.”

“He's not an animal.”

“He's a barn animal disguised as a Duke,” Caroline hissed. “I do not care how many dragons he has in his pocket – he is a brute with a sordid history of sticking his cock wherever it would bring him the most power. When will you allow yourself to see it, Harry? Everything you need to know is right in front of you.”

“You sound like Lady Swift.”

“She has her reasons,” Caroline acknowledged. “I have mine. When have I ever led you astray, Harry?”

Harry fell quiet, feeling young and naked underneath Caroline's scrutinizing gaze. It was true that Caroline had never provided Harry with poor advice. She had always been helpful in her own strange little way – clearly never straightforward with her guidance, but it was also obvious that she did care for Harry, always had. And she had never really warned Harry so strongly against someone else before, never went so far as to call someone within Harry's circle a “barn animal” or a “brute.” Harry couldn't imagine that she would do so lightly, not when Harry was sure that some of her favorite familiars also spent their fair share of time in barns.

But Harry still couldn't help but believe that Caroline _had_ to be misguided. In spite of everything that had happened earlier in the day, Louis was still indeed Harry's friend, one of his closest companions – the only one Harry knew he could count on besides Liam and Niall. Even if Louis was pulling some sort of callous stunt on Prince Zayn's behalf, Harry was still very attached to him and could not fault Louis for consistently trying to do well by his brother.

Harry also understood that it was ludicrous to spend any time trying to make heads or tales of Louis' proposition in the off-chance that it was not a test, but Harry wasn't sure what he was supposed to even be _doing_ anymore. His husband certainly did not want to hold up his end of the marriage bargain. Harry had no real tasks at court, nothing to claim ownership over, and now that he and Prince Zayn no longer spent all of their hours together, it was almost as though Harry and Prince Zayn were nothing more than acquaintances who had breakfast every so often. Harry felt like a beauty betrothal, there simply for the Prince's vanity, and Prince Zayn did not seem interested in guaranteeing that Harry felt otherwise now that the honeymoon was long over. Harry supposed the Prince was not obligated to, but still. Louis was kind and he was attentive. He was _there_.

“Please do not do this to yourself, Harry,” Caroline said softly. “Nothing good can come of it. And I'm not saying that as someone who is out to deride you or whatever you think I am doing most of the time. I am saying this as someone who cares deeply for you. _Do not do this to yourself_.” Harry sniffled and nodded, burying his face into the pleat of Caroline's dress while she hummed above him. “That's a good lad,” Caroline whispered. “You'll find your way, don't you worry.”

“I wasn't ready for all of this,” Harry confided, feeling braver with his face hidden in Caroline's clothing. “I spent my entire life flouncing about court, taking whoever would have me and not picking up on any of the lessons my parents tried to impart upon me. And then when Father died – ”

“You can't beat yourself up about that, Harry,” Caroline interrupted firmly. “What's done is done. What you said to that boy earlier is true – the only thing you can do for yourself is find a way to survive and flourish. And you _do_ have the tools for that.”

“ _How_?” Harry asked, hating himself for how childish and forlorn he sounded.

“Your desirability is indeed your greatest asset,” Caroline murmured. “The Prince is simultaneously enamored by you and perplexed by your agreeableness. Use his befuddlement to your advantage.”

“I don't know what that means,” Harry admitted. “I have tried to make myself to his liking – ”

“No, that is not what I mean,” Caroline said. “I was hoping I would not have to make myself so _plain_ , but I am suggesting that you make the Prince jealous.”

Harry sat up and curled away from Caroline, bringing his knees up to his chin. “By using Louis, you mean.”

Caroline grinned, her eyes sparkling. “It would be best to keep him close.”

“But he just said – ”

“He may want to bed you, I cannot be entirely sure, but whatever he says, he is not in love with you,” Caroline answered with a careless wave of her arm. “The rat's interests do not lie beyond the Prince's complacency and the throne.”

“But he also said – ”

“That's not what I meant,” Caroline hissed. “And if you paid half a mind to the world beyond your self-obsessed orb of existence, you would know _exactly_ what I am getting at.”

“Why can't you just tell me?” Harry huffed.

“Am I not divulging enough? A better witch than I would normally ask for your firstborn for all of the advice I just imparted.” Caroline leaned forward and rested her hands on Harry's wrist, her nails pinching the skin. “You're lucky that I know such a promise would be a waste of breath. But keep the rodent close. Let jealousy and confusion roil Prince Zayn's skin. Turn a cold eye to the rumors plaguing you at court, then see how quickly the Prince comes tumbling into your sheets, begging for a sliver of your time and affection.”

“And then what?” Harry demanded. “There's still a whole lifetime together to negotiate after I bed him.”

“And then I'll visit you again and give you more guidance that you will disregard or not appreciate,” Caroline answered, pressing a soft kiss to Harry's hairline and standing. “You must know the routine by now, love.”

“ _Caroline_ – ” Harry whined, but with the hum of the wind and the howl of a wolf, she was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is b-a-n-a-n-a-s, I can't wait.


	7. Part Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry knew it then – he would never be that silly little boy again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to what has become a fucking cohort of beta readers - Rue, Emily, Grace, and the always amazing Fee. You are all so helpful in completely different ways and I love you all lots.
> 
> Thank you as well to Roxie for the [art for this chapter](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/post/99128340441/babyxnanas-dedicated-to-catholicschoolgirl-and). I cried over it a little bit. 
> 
> Another note of thanks to Emmie for also [producing an amazing bit of art for me](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/post/99198445416/prettymuchjustsomestuff-hrh-zayn-from-jasmine). My tears only intensified when I saw this. I cried a lot this weekend. 
> 
> And thanks as well to everyone who is sticking with this story! I hope you don't hate this chapter too much - it's my fave so far.

When Harry was a child, one of his favorite tales centered around the Knight-Errant and a young maiden from a faraway land named Tessa. The Knight rescued the young woman from a house fire that also killed her parents, and Tessa joined his company for a brief period of time, serving as a key companion in the Knight's company of misfits. Harry used to listen to Tessa's escapades for hours, like the time she helped thwart a robbery by befriending the thief's horse, or the instance where she dressed up as a man in order to fulfill the terms of a drunken bet and actually won the affection of a young Princess in the process. Tessa was always Harry's favorite of the Knight-Errant's companions. Tessa the Wise, a beautiful maiden with a phoenix etched into her skin.

One day, Harry grew bold and asked whatever came of Tessa – the version of tales Harry had in his possession didn't provide an explanation. His mother never answered, only frowned and told Harry not to worry about it. It was only when Harry became a young man, Tessa's arc and his unanswered question popping into his mind one day, that Harry took the initiative and found an old, battered copy of the Knight-Errant's tales in the palace library. There, in a chapter Harry had never heard or read before, was the trajectory of Tessa's life after leaving the service of the Knight-Errant.

Harry ended up shutting the dusty manuscript with a snap and sat alone in silence for a long, long time.

 

Harry was not expecting for Prince Zayn to come look for him after Harry moved all of his things to the unoccupied room, but Harry had not been expecting much of anything, to be fair. One of the servants lit a fire for Harry because the room was quite drafty, while another brought down blankets and prepared the quarters to Harry's liking, the girl's brown eyes quiet and assessing, but thankfully she refrained from peppering Harry with useless questions. She also brought Harry food from the others' meal, but Harry found that he had no appetite, swirled his spoon around the perimeter of the soup bowl before deciding he would much rather crawl into bed instead, body tired but mind still reeling from everything he had experienced over the past few hours.

It hit Harry then, just how utterly _lost_ he felt. Harry missed home so intensely it made tears prick behind his eyes. Life seemed so much simpler only a year ago. He missed Gemma and her winsome smile, the way she teased and prodded at his cheeks to get his attention. He missed his mother, her warm embrace and her quiet words of encouragement. And Harry ached for his father. So, so very much.

The door creaked open sending a sliver of light into the room. Harry sniffled to himself, burying his head underneath the covers and willing his racking chest into stillness so that the intruder would assume he was already asleep. When the intruder walked further into the room, Harry innately knew from the shuffle of his gait and the quiet hum of his breath that it was Prince Zayn. The floorboards bent underneath his weight, and Harry held his breath while the Prince made his way over to the bed, setting the small lantern he was carrying on a table and crouching over Harry's prostrate form.

“Love?” Prince Zayn whispered, his hand feeling hesitant on Harry's back. It made something hot and unwelcome crawl up Harry's throat. They had been together for _months_ now – the Prince should not be afraid to touch Harry, should not be uncertain in his caress. Harry jerked away from Prince Zayn and wrapped arms around himself defensively, whining pitifully as he felt Prince Zayn settle in the groove of space behind Harry's bottom. Harry just wanted the Prince to _go away_ – go away and leave Harry to sulk and cry in quiet.

“Love,” Prince Zayn tried again. “ _Harry_. What's wrong? Why didn't you come down for dinner?”

Harry didn't answer, instead attempting to roll over and away from Prince Zayn's touch. The Prince made a distressed noise and reached out, grabbing Harry's shoulder firmly. Harry humphed and let Prince Zayn turn him over, peeling back the blankets and staring at the Prince through the hair that fell into his eyes. Prince Zayn's countenance was the definition of concerned, pouting lips and thick brows knotted together, and Harry sighed as he settled onto his back.

“What do you want?” Harry huffed, tacking on, “Your Highness” so as to not sound _completely_ insolent.

“Are you – are you _cross_ with me?” Prince Zayn asked, wrapping his arms around his middle and withdrawing into himself, hazel eyes almost shuttering closed. “I haven't seen you all day and the servants do not think you are ill. I – I've been worried.”

“I'm not cross with you.”

“You're behaving as though you are,” Prince Zayn replied slowly. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No, of course not, Your Highness,” Harry answered, smiling insincerely but blindly at the Prince. “I truly am not feeling well.”

“I do not want you to feel as though you need to hide your true emotions from me.”

“And I feel the same way,” Harry retorted defiantly.

Prince Zayn blinked, clearly taken aback. “I have not been hiding my emotions from you, Harry.”

“Which is why you have avoided me ever since our honeymoon, I take it,” Harry answered airily.

“I have not been avoiding you.”

“Bullshit.”

The Prince frowned and Harry felt something like triumph spread in warm coils through his extremities. Harry had spent so much of the past few months feeling lost and confused. It was nice to see those same emotions flit across Prince Zayn's features.

“I helped plan this excursion so that we could spend time together – ”

“You planned this trip for Louis. Try again.”

“You do not need to be cruel.”

“Neither do you,” Harry scoffed. “Yet your mercurial attitude towards me and my happiness is still cavalier, no matter how you want to look at it.”

Prince Zayn appeared to be at an absolute loss, mouth working without any sound coming out. The Prince settled against the headboard and pulled his knees up to his chest, surveying Harry as though he was only seeing him for the first time.

“Is this what Louis meant?” Prince Zayn asked finally. “When he spoke of needing to get your head in a good place?”

Harry did not respond, but instead watched the Prince silently. Prince Zayn sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and turned to Harry, twiddling with the wedding band on his ring finger.

“I apologize if I have not been the most attentive,” Prince Zayn said, his eyes flickering upward to meet Harry's. “I presumed – at the end of the honeymoon, you seemed dissatisfied. I wanted to give you your space.”

Harry let out a long breath. “I was dissatisfied because I did not feel as though I accomplished my duty.”

“Duty?”

“ _Please_ , Your Highness,” Harry answered with a long, sideways glance. “You know exactly what I am referring to. If you would rather that we never lay together, I just . . . I would simply like to know now so that I can stop obsessing over it, thinking I have a chance when it is not in the cards for us.”

Prince Zayn blanched, eyes darting quickly to glance at the door. Harry was not sure whether he wanted to run or was merely guaranteeing that no one else was listening in on their conversation. “I – it isn't – I – ”

“That was very clear, thank you,” Harry intoned sarcastically.

Prince Zayn made a low, frustrated noise and reached over to grasp Harry's hands in his own. “It's not that I do not want to lay with you,” Prince Zayn said, words clear and forceful. “I dream about it more often than not, and sometimes I get so overwhelmed by the desire I cannot focus or accomplish any tasks.”

“Then why – ?”

“I am _afraid_ ,” Prince Zayn whispered, eyes wide. “I am so afraid, Harry. I – I might not show it, and I apologize for being so removed, but I care so deeply for you and want to do well by you. If not fully as a lover, certainly as a friend. But I – I just. I have never been with anyone else. I do not want to mess this up, and I'm so sure that I will.”

“You've never laid with anyone?” Harry asked curiously. “ _Never_?” Heat bloomed across Prince Zayn's cheeks as he shook his head and squeezed Harry's palms, licking his lips nervously. “Oh. _Oh_ , that's. Uh. Okay. How come you have not confided this to me earlier? I assumed you thought I was some sort of ogre.”

“How could I ever find you beastly?” Prince Zayn inquired incredulously.

“You weren't talking to me. How was I to know what you were thinking? Of course my mind is going to leap to the worst possible scenario.”

Prince Zayn groaned and let Harry's palms go to scrub at his eyes. Harry watched him with a frown.

“Can we just,” the Prince started. “Is that why you are cross? I know you went out somewhere with Louis earlier, and he's been in a sulk ever since he returned, too. Did he say something cruel to you? Can you – can _we_ – just talk? Communicate better?”

Harry bristled slightly hearing Louis' name but chose to ignore Prince Zayn's entire line of questioning. “I just want to know what is going on,” Harry said, lifting his shoulder with a sigh. “I always feel like the last to know everything and I don't think that's fair.”

Prince Zayn nodded and he briefly rose from the bed, shucking off his boots and his dinner robe before pressing at Harry's side, urging Harry to make more room on the mattress. Prince Zayn crawled in behind Harry and wrapped his arms around Harry's waist, burying his face into Harry's shoulder and letting out a sweet hiss of breath. Harry let his own hands come to cover Prince Zayn's, playing with the Prince's long, artful fingers and smiling to himself, small and pleased.

“My father will be announcing his abdication soon,” Prince Zayn murmured, lips pressed against the length of Harry's neck. “That's why – well, it's part of the reason why I have been so busy. We want to make the transition as smooth as possible, and we've been having long meetings together. Just the King, his closest advisers, Matty, and myself.”

“Your father is renouncing the throne?” Harry asked, turning to gape at the Prince. “Why?”

Prince Zayn shook his head minutely. “He's a war king. He's never ruled during a period of peace. And he's _tired_ – the conflict lasted so long, a full lifetime, yet it's all he knows. He says he wants to live a quiet life in the country and now is the time to do it.”

“And your sister – ?”

“She has already officially told my father in no uncertain terms that she has absolutely no interest in ruling,” Prince Zayn answered.

“And so the throne goes to you,” Harry muttered.

“No,” Prince Zayn corrected. “The throne comes to _us_.”

Harry was not entirely sure how he was supposed to react to this development, his mind already reeling over all of the implications. “You have not sufficiently prepared me for this news,” Harry gasped. “I should have been alerted the minute you knew. I – I am not ready to help you rule or whatever it is you want me to even _do_.”

“That's not true,” Prince Zayn protested. “My mother and sisters have been spending so much of their time with you for a reason. Introducing you to diplomats, getting you acquainted with the most important noblemen. I am going to need your help, Harry, and I trust that in time you'll be my right hand.”

Harry scoffed and Prince Zayn glowered, hazel eyes glimmering in the hazy light of the Prince's lantern. “It just – I don't know. This all seems ridiculously fast. Was this the King's intention all along? Part of the reason why he insisted that I move to the kingdom with you?”

The Prince shook his head. “I cannot be certain what my father was thinking, but everything about this process has been a whirlwind,” Prince Zayn reasoned. “I just want you to know that I am here for you. That all of this – you are not going through it alone.”

Harry hummed softly and busied himself with interlocking his fingers with the Prince's, who sighed against Harry's shoulder and began peppering kisses along the column of Harry's neck.

“We do not have to lay together tonight, you know,” Harry said, aiming for conversational and absolutely failing, voice far too high with nervousness. “As much as I want to. But there are other things I could do for you, particularly if you have been feeling stressed. My mouth has several talents.”

The Prince stopped, his lips still hot and warm against Harry's skin. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Harry started, relinquishing his hold on Prince Zayn's hand and rolling over just enough that their fronts were pressed together, Harry fluttering his fingertips down the planes of Prince Zayn's body, stopping when he reached the top of the Prince's breeches. “I can make you feel good.”

“I – I think we should just go to bed,” Prince Zayn stuttered, scooping Harry's hand up and blushing prettily. “If that's okay?”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Harry said, taking another deep breath and rolling back over in the bed, willing his body into a deep slumber.

 

The trip to Abbas ended up being sexually frustrating but thankfully brief. Prince Zayn remained coy, teasing Harry nearly every night before they went to bed, and Harry legitimately wondered how someone whose body was so sinful could be so pious in his deeds.

Three days into the vacation, news came from the capital of some sort of disturbance – Harry found himself unable to follow the quickfire burst of words when Matty and the Prince were speaking with the messenger – and Prince Zayn announced mournfully that he would have to return to court to sort out the details. Harry was no longer interested in staying in those cursed mountains anyway, exhausted as he was from the conversation with Louis and whatever Harry was doing with the Prince, so he promised Prince Zayn that he would leave, as well. The entire trip consequently disintegrated.

Everyone was busying themselves packing up the carriages to head back to Jinan when Louis came to stand next to Harry, a smug smile on his face. It was a brisk day, and Harry could feel a cold coming on, a tick already firmly lodged in his throat. Harry was hardly in the mood for Louis' mind games and watched Louis approach warily.

“Couldn't even lure the Prince into bed with the promise of fellatio?” Louis murmured with a sly grin, Harry's face going hot with mortification and embarrassment. “What did I tell you? Are you willing to consider my proposition yet?”

Harry always prided himself on not being a particularly violent person, but that being said, if he could have throttled Louis in that moment without explaining himself, he would have.

 

On the eve of Harry and Prince Zayn's half-year anniversary, few of the fundamental details of their relationship had changed. Harry and Prince Zayn were hardly ever alone, the Prince always conjuring a convenient excuse whenever Harry asked whether he could come up to his quarters or join the Prince on a night ride. Harry knew that people at court were talking, heard the ways conversations went stilted and died out the moment he entered a room. From what Harry could tell, all of the whispers centered around the belief that the Prince and Harry were in the middle of a row, although the rumors discussing the basis of their alleged disagreement ran the gamut, with some believing that Harry was too vain and the Prince found it distasteful, and others correctly picking up on a lack of intimacy being the source of contention.

Meanwhile, plans for King Yaser's abdication gained a greater urgency, and the date was quietly set in the new year for Prince Zayn's coronation. In practical terms, this meant little for Harry. From what Harry could ascertain, he was assuming the tasks that Queen Patricia was responsible for at court, but as Queen Patricia had a distaste for most royal activities, this spelled little additional responsibility for Harry. In order to keep himself occupied, Harry found himself fielding mindless questions about the coronation and spending more and more time with Professor Sheeran at the university, trying to teach himself history and diplomacy in the off chance that the Prince would actually want or require Harry's assistance. It was truly infuriating because Harry only wanted to spend his time with one person and Prince Zayn seemed incapable of providing Harry with a moment of his undivided attention.

 

As the year moved deeper into fall, Harry attempted to put the slinky words Caroline imparted to him at Abbas out of his mind. However, the longer Harry and Prince Zayn's relationship appeared to plateau, the louder Caroline's advice resonated. The Prince was an absolute master of doublespeak, keeping Harry hopeful with sweet words proclaiming his undying affection one moment, while continuing with the same actions that made Harry feel neglected the next, and Harry was sick of being a pawn in another man's game. Harry had never been one for the silly manipulation that the noblemen at court indulged in, twisting each other up with jealousy and constantly angling for privilege and power, but he was finally starting to understand the allure.

It had gotten to that point. Harry was _that_ desperate.

So when Louis came to Harry's quarters one night, drunk and forlorn because Eleanor's family finally set a date for their nuptials, Harry threw his doors open wide and welcomed Louis in, throwing a careless smile at the gossipy servant he knew kept watch over his door at night. Louis and the Prince were still on shaky ground, and half of court believed Harry and Prince Zayn were actively quarreling. Harry knew exactly how this would look.

 _Let them talk_ , Harry thought deliriously, even as Louis dived headfirst onto Harry's settee and promptly passed out, Harry throwing a blanket over his form before turning to his own bed. _Let them talk, and let it_ all _get back to the Prince_.

 

Harry was leaving his quarters to have his weekly meal with Princess Waliyha when Niall cornered him in the hallway, robes fluttering behind him and his cheeks pink with exertion.

“Why was he in your rooms?” Niall hissed, grabbing Harry's elbow and hauling him in close, eyes darting around the hallway before narrowing in on Harry's face. “And for the third time in a week?”

“Who?” Harry asked breezily, shaking Niall off and continuing his walk down the hallway.

“Do not play dumb,” Niall retorted. “Duke Tomlinson.”

“We have just been talking,” Harry answered shortly. It was true. Louis and Harry were in the middle of a strange dance, Harry still unsure whether Louis' attraction was genuine and Louis seemingly thriving off of Harry's confusion, but Harry was not about to give into Louis' persistent advances, no matter their authenticity. “He's desolate because of the wedding and has been coming to my quarters when he has had too much to drink. I assumed it would be more tasteful to have him sleep off his inebriation rather than let him bumble about the halls.”

“You know how this court is,” Niall snapped. “People are _talking_. Saying that he's got you under some sort of sex spell, or that you're using him to further your own devious ends. Even the Prince – ”

“What about Prince Zayn?” Harry asked, coming to a full stop as he scrutinized Niall's countenance carefully. Niall looked distinctly uncomfortable underneath Harry's inspection, fidgeting with the hem of his top and stubbornly avoiding Harry's eyes. The moment seemed to stretch on forever, Niall and Harry both measuring each other uncomfortably. “Niall,” Harry tried again, clearly enunciating every syllable. “What about the Prince?”

Niall let out a long-suffering sigh and looked about the hallway again, gesturing for Harry to lean in close. “I heard this directly from Matty, so you can be assured that it is _not_ just typical court gossip. Apparently the Prince summoned Louis to his quarters and asked Louis what exactly he was playing at and if he really thought it was wise to spend so much time and effort rolling around in your bed. Louis stubbornly denied it, of course, said as much as you – that he just went stumbling into your rooms because he's pissed about the wedding date – but the Prince did not seem particularly convinced. Matty says that if Louis isn't able to get back onto the Prince's good side _and fast_ , the Prince might send him on a diplomacy mission for a while, or speed up his wedding to Eleanor and remove him from court that way.”

“So the Prince believes that I'm sleeping with his half-brother,” Harry clarified, narrowing his eyes. “And if not that, that _something_ inappropriate is occurring between the two of us. That's what you're telling me.”

Niall sighed heavily and rubbed at his temples before responding, “Yes.”

Harry nodded once and turned on his heel, stomping down the hallway and resolutely ignoring Niall's calls to return and talk. Harry reached the staircase and climbed them with lightning speed before coming to the top floor and nodding at the two men keeping watch in front of the Prince's chambers. “No need to announce me,” Harry called in a sing-song as he threw the doors open himself, standing in the threshold and impassively surveying the scene in front of him. Matty and the Prince were both at a table pushed against the far window, scrolls and scrolls of parchment laid out between them. The Prince was pinching the bridge of his nose, both eyes closed, and Matty looked similarly exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. Both looked up at the sound of the door banging open, twin expressions of confusion on their faces.

“Prince Harry,” Prince Zayn murmured as he blinked slowly, while Matty offered his own greetings, standing and sinking into his characteristic bow.

“There's no need for all of those ostentatious showings of respect, Matty,” Harry said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Since I'm apparently little more than a common whore, is that right, Your Highness?”

Both Matty and Prince Zayn's eyes widened. “I – I should go,” Matty squeaked, turning to bow at Prince Zayn and make his exit, but Harry laughed and stopped him with a raised hand.

“No, no, I really think you should stay,” Harry replied.

“Harry – ” Prince Zayn started but Harry shook his head quickly, laughing under his breath.

“No, Matty should stay. Maybe you can whisper in his ear, and then he'll tell me what you're _really_ thinking, since that's how I hear everything anyway.”

“Your Highness, I would very much like to leave,” Matty said firmly. “I do not want to be in the middle of a lover's quarrel.”

“The Prince would have to actually _touch_ me in order for us to be lovers, as I am sure you know,” Harry quipped. “And _apparently_ I am so hard up that I have sought my fill elsewhere – with the Prince's half-brother, perhaps? That _is_ the rumor you were promulgating, correct, Your Highness?”

Prince Zayn opened his mouth and shut it, turning to glance at Matty with panic clearly painted in the tremble of his bottom lip. Harry almost felt bad for forcing the Prince's hand like this – hated to think he was in any way hurting Prince Zayn's feelings or making him uncomfortable, but it wasn't as though Harry wasn't distressed himself. A portion of Harry's brain was reeling with the realization that the Prince thought Harry capable of an affair – and with Prince Zayn's own flesh and blood, no less. But this was what Caroline had advised Harry to do, so Harry was sticking to the task at hand, trying to steel his body into something approximating calmness. If Caroline was indeed correct, if this was what it took to get Prince Zayn to notice him, so be it.

“Please, Your Highness – ” Matty tried again, his usually pale countenance even whiter with his discomfort.

“Fine, you can leave,” Harry replied curtly. Matty nodded twice rapidly and bowed, throwing one last mournful look in Prince Zayn's direction before scampering out of the room. Prince Zayn flinched when the door slammed shut but otherwise he doggedly studied his own hands, worrying his bottom lip between his two front teeth., even when Harry moved to take Matty's unoccupied seat in front of him.

Harry stared at the Prince's profile, feeling deceptively at ease. “What do you want from me, truly?” Harry inquired, voice barely above a hum. “I know that you do not actually desire me – ”

“I _never_ said that,” Prince Zayn interrupted, looking up with such a soft, dewy expression that Harry felt his breath catch in his throat. “I – I never said I didn't want you, Harry.”

“I don't believe you,” Harry answered, tone equally low. But when his voice cracked, it was not put on. “And I know that neither of us wanted this or prepared for it, but I've been trying to make the best of it, Your Highness.”

Prince Zayn shook his head slowly. “This isn't a punishment for you like it is for me.”

“Is that supposed to be a _joke_?” Harry spat, his anger flaring quick and hot. “Last I checked, you were _not_ the one shipped halfway across the world, torn from your family and friends and plopped down into a kingdom where you did not understand the language, alone save two members of your court and a chest of clothes. And apart from that first month together, the one where you actually _talked_ to me, this certainly has not been a bloody holiday.” Prince Zayn fell quiet, turning his head again so that he was studying the landscape outside of his window. Harry let him sit with his thoughts for several long moments before asking, “Do you legitimately think that I've been sleeping with Louis?”

Prince Zayn stubbornly avoided Harry's gaze as he lifted one delicate shoulder and closed his eyes.

Harry knew that he came across as sensitive, but partially this was because Harry knew how to turn situations to his advantage whenever things did not go his way. He used to cry and throw fits when Lady Cole refused to tell him scary stories at night, once spent hours fitfully crying when a visiting diplomat told Harry he couldn't stay at court but needed to return home to his wife. Harry's tears eventually wore the diplomat down. Harry felt things very deeply, could worry over inconsequential details for hours,days, but he also knew that he could use the perception of himself as a vapid, self-absorbed brat to suit his will.

So Harry acted exactly as he should have at such a blasé display of emotion from the Prince, Harry gasping out a breath and turning away so that Prince Zayn wouldn't see him wiping furiously at his own eyes, tears already pricking behind his lashes.

There was a long moment of silence, Harry chewing his bottom lip until he tasted the copper of his own blood before spitting, “ _Fuck you_ ,” and rising from his seat. For the second time that day, Harry ignored the calls to return, and instead sauntered out of the Prince's quarters, turning down the hallway to go to his meeting with Princess Waliyha, tongue already set with apologies for his tardiness.

 

The gifts started up almost immediately.

Harry was in his private quarters with Niall and Professor Sheeran, discussing the cursed Sawsan territory for what felt like the millionth time, when a knock came to the door. Harry gestured for Niall to rise and answer it, and Niall stood back as a small messenger boy walked into the room, arms straining under the weight of a heavy emerald colored vase laden down with chrysanthemum of startling reds and hazy purples. The boy set the flowers down on the table adjacent to Harry's bed, bowing once his hands were free.

“A gift, courtesy of the Prince,” the boy announced. Harry exchanged a look with Niall, who brushed past the boy and pulled a small note out of the floral arrangement, silently handing it over to Harry.

The note did not say anything particularly exciting – merely an apology for upsetting the Prince Consort. When Harry examined the handwriting, Harry couldn't help but think Matty was the one who wrote and signed the note anyway. Harry rolled his eyes and handed the slip of parchment back to Niall before turning to the young messenger.

“Tell the Prince that I cannot be wooed so easily,” Harry said, quirking an eyebrow and adopting a haughty expression. “Please send them back.”

“Send them back?” the boy squeaked.

“Yes,” Harry answered, dismissing the servant with a wave of his hand. “Tell the Prince that I don't want them.”

The boy exchanged a hesitant look with Niall but collected the vase back into his arms and scampered out of the room, Harry smiling before returning to his studies.

 

The next day, the boy returned with brand new robes, ones thickly lined with fur. And the day after that his arms cradled gorgeous leather boots assembled by the most regarded shoemaker in the capital. Then a heavy silver locket, and then a ring, one so clearly expensive Harry did not even want to lay a hand on it. Beautiful gifts accompanied by increasingly attentive and pleading notes. And Harry sent each and every one of those gifts back, smiling when the young messenger boy caught on to the game, returning every morning with gleeful reports on the young Prince's mounting frustration.

“You're going to make Prince Zayn explode,” Niall remarked over a midday meal and a game of cards, dealing Harry's hand before scooping his own up and regarding it with a frown. “Matty says the Prince doesn't know what to do with you.”

“Was Matty trying to talk to you about it?”

“Of course he was. He wouldn't be a good friend if he didn't try to wrestle secrets out of me. But it was like talking in circles, because I don't know why you're upset with the Prince in the first place.”

“Well,” Harry shrugged. “The Prince will eventually figure something out. Or he can just bankrupt the country trying to ply me with gifts. Either or.”

Niall snorted as a knock came to the door. Kevin did not wait for either Niall or Harry to answer but instead peeked in, long black hair falling around his ruddy face. “Prince Zayn is waiting in the hallway,” Kevin said, tone giving nothing away even as his face contorted around a smile. “Would you like to see him, Your Highness?”

“Um,” Harry said, turning to look at Niall, who shrugged and cleared their plates away. “I suppose so. But doesn't Prince Zayn normally have his meeting with – ?”

“He said he canceled all of his tasks for the day in order to spend time with you,” Kevin answered. “And Your Highness? He seems a little agitated.”

“All right then,” Harry muttered as Niall threw his hand of cards down, Harry looking over the spread with a sputter. “Damn it, I most certainly would have won that round.”

“Tough luck, Your Highness,” Niall answered. “I'll see you at dinner?”

Harry nodded, smiling when Niall clapped his shoulder and left the room. It was another few moments before Prince Zayn entered. He did indeed seem more than a little flustered, face mottled red and dressed as he would for a day of lounging about. Harry could not remember the last time he saw the Prince in such simple attire, certainly not since Harry knew that Prince Zayn was being groomed to take over his father's duties immediately.

“Why was Horan in your chambers?” Prince Zayn asked, coming to sit before Harry at his games table. “Why were you two alone?”

Harry gaped at the Prince. “Hello, Prince Zayn, it's nice to see you, too.”

“I – I'm sorry,” Prince Zayn gasped, resting his head on clasped hands. “I shouldn't have – ”

“No, you shouldn't come into my rooms and immediately accuse me of infidelity for the second time in as many weeks,” Harry hissed. “I am pleased to see that for once we are on the same page.”

“I've missed you,” Prince Zayn said, licking his lips and reaching out for Harry, who jerked his hands away, feeling morbidly pleased at the stricken look on the Prince's face.

“We've hardly spoken. How can you say you've missed me?”

“ _Please_ , Harry,” the Prince plead. “I miss you every day we aren't together.”

Harry just hummed, taking this as the opportunity to clean up the cards scattered across the table. “Louis says you take me for granted,” Harry said conversationally. “He told me that right before he showed me a chest of dragon eggs at Abbas.”

“In that cave?” Prince Zayn asked, scrunching his nose up. “He took you to the cave when we were in the forest?”

“He did.”

“So the bastard was trying to show off. Did he fuck you there?”

“No,” Harry answered coolly. “I haven't bedded anyone in over a fucking _year_ , Zayn, not since my father died, and especially not since I was sent here. Not that you would be able to tell if I had or hadn't.”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you _think_ it means?” Harry asked around a cruel laugh.

Prince Zayn slumped in his seat and looked at Harry through the heavy spread of his dark eyelashes. “I'm not lying when I say I miss you, Harry,” Prince Zayn mumbled. “I know I have not been doting – not as I would like to be. And I feel the failure of it every single day, your mounting scorn. And when you returned my first gift, I – ” The Prince trailed off, his words ending in a sigh. “So I would – I would understand if you turned and sought comfort in another man's embrace. I would not like it, but I would accept it.”

“Are you truly that obtuse to think there is anyone else I want more than you?” Harry marveled. “What could I _possibly_ gain in a romp with another man?”

“I don't know, someone with more time – ”

“No,” Harry interrupted. “I want you. I have only wanted you. From the moment I saw you. There is nobody else, and I am insulted that you would ever think otherwise.”

The Prince cocked his head, measuring Harry. Whatever he saw in Harry's visage must have been enough, because he let out a low sigh and sniffled a bit, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I have been wracked with jealousy, Harry,” the Prince admitted. “When I first heard those rumors – I did not even _think_. I just called Louis in and – I had to know. I have to share so much of myself and what I have. But I do not have to share you. I – I became enraged when I thought someone else might be trying to take you away from me.”

“I'm not a toy for you to argue over or a piece of property to be negotiated,” Harry snarled. “I'm your husband.”

“I know,” Prince Zayn answered, voice broken, but this time when he reached across the table, Harry let him interlock their fingers, Harry's pale tone a pleasant compliment to the Prince's darker hue. “I still miss you.”

“I'm right here,” Harry replied with a small smile.

“I miss the way you look against my sheets when we would wake up in the mornings together.” Harry raised his gaze to meet the Prince's eyes. They were simultaneously steely and gentle, Harry feeling the air rush out of him all at once. “And – and I miss how soft the skin on your hips feel.” The Prince licked his lips but otherwise continued to bore into Harry's eyes, Harry feeling pinned underneath his fixed stare. “I remember one morning when we were in the mountains, I accidentally walked into the dressing room while the servant girls were helping you get ready for the day. You didn't notice but the girls immediately made me leave, but it wasn't before I saw you. Every inch of your skin was so obscene and I just wanted to run my lips all over you. And I was so – I don't even know why I did not make everyone leave and beg for you to take me right then.”

“Oh gods,” Harry cursed under his breath.

“Then with all of these rumors, the thought of your delicious body writhing underneath anyone else – I couldn't even bear – ” Prince Zayn stopped himself suddenly, gnawing his lips. His next words were uttered in a whisper. “I'm just. I know now. I love you. So, so much.”

Harry damn near threw himself across the table, lips catching the Prince's awkwardly in a kiss. When Prince Zayn pulled away, he appeared hesitant, his eyes darting over Harry's face. “Was that – ?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry hissed hungrily, walking around the table properly before pulling Prince Zayn flush against him, melding their lips together and licking Prince Zayn's mouth open on a groan. He tasted just as Harry remembered, like the berry wine they served at court and something else, something spicy and mouthwatering, and Prince Zayn's tongue was sinful where it melded against Harry's, both of them moaning into the kiss. Prince Zayn brought his hands to Harry's hips, pressing hard against his skin while Harry snaked his arms over Prince Zayn's shoulders, trying to bring him even closer. Harry wanted to burrow underneath the Prince's skin, wanted to prove to Prince Zayn that it was only him, could only ever be him, make Prince Zayn see through his obvious desperation that Harry had been nothing but faithful. Harry ached more intensely for Prince Zayn's touch than he ever had for anyone else's, finally understanding the soul-melding beauty of joining his body with another. Harry squirmed underneath Prince Zayn's heavy, experimental touches, bumping his groin against Prince Zayn's and inhaling sharply when he felt the hot heat of the Prince's cock against his thigh. Harry pulled away long enough to commit Prince Zayn's expression to memory – cheeks flushed, lips swollen and kiss-bitten, hazel eyes dark with his arousal. And all of it because of _Harry_.

“Do you want this?” Harry whispered. “Do you truly want me?”

“Yes,” Prince Zayn breathed, so low it almost sounded like a prayer. “I – I wanted you from the moment I met you, was so overwhelmed with it I didn't know what to do, how to handle it. Louis said to give you some space, make sure we both trusted each other, feel things out, and I _did_ , I tried to, but I – I should've talked to you more once we returned to court but there was just _so much to do_. I don't want to wait any longer – ”

“Fuck,” Harry cursed, surging forward again and winding his fingers through Prince Zayn's silky locks. The Prince smiled against Harry's lips and brought his hands to rest on Harry's hips again, walking them towards Harry's canopy bed, both of them giggling breathlessly when Prince Zayn pushed Harry against the mattress. Prince Zayn grabbed the hem of his own chemise and raised it over his head, lazily tossing it to the floor, and Harry's laughter died in his throat as his eyes traced the swirling ink patterns all over Prince Zayn's chest, stomach and arms, deep, intricate black designs interrupting the otherwise smooth, tan planes of his body. Harry reached up and traced the unfamiliar script decorating Prince Zayn's collarbone, looking up at Prince Zayn as he asked, “What is – what's all this?”

“Do you not have ceremonial tattoos in your kingdom?” Prince Zayn asked curiously. Harry shook his head, letting his fingers follow the designs etched into Prince Zayn's skin. “Well, I suppose they are not common here, either. My father – the men from his homeland receive tattoos when they are on the brink of manhood. I always wanted to be like my father, so I asked if I could get them done, too. He brought men over by ship to do it the traditional way. It took three weeks.”

“They're beautiful,” Harry whispered. “ _You're_ beautiful.”

“Hush, you,” Prince Zayn replied, a flush spreading over his cheeks.

“No,” Harry answered, gripping Prince Zayn's waist and letting his lips rub against Prince Zayn's chest, grinning when he felt the indentations that separated the tattoos from Prince Zayn's unmarked skin. “Wanted this for so long – wanted _you_ for so long. You know, when they told me I was being shipped here, I never imagined that it would be like this.”

“Like what?” Prince Zayn asked, playing with the hem of Harry's own shirt before pushing Harry against the mattress and rucking the fabric up around Harry's underarms, watching almost hypnotized as he ran his hands over Harry's stomach.

“I thought you'd be ugly, for one,” Harry said, smiling big and soppy when Prince Zayn snorted. “ _What_? I did. Most of the royals I've encountered are inbred fools.”

“I suppose I cannot say much different,” Prince Zayn admitted, his hands still running reverentially over Harry's stomach. “Was terrified that you would be stupid, lumbering.”

“And then there you were,” Harry breathed. “The most beautiful person I've ever seen. So lovely your people tell stories about you, and I'm sure all of them are true. And then I tripped and fell and you know the rest.”

Prince Zayn looked up at Harry, redness coloring his cheeks and collarbone. “You flatter me too much, Harry.”

“Do I?” Harry asked teasingly.

“Yes,” Prince Zayn answered. “I feel ridiculous even admitting this, but I have spent a fair amount of energy guaranteeing that you find me appealing.”

“What?”

“I asked around,” Prince Zayn replied lazily, even as he leaned forward and put his knees on either side of Harry's waist on the bed, bracketing Harry in with his arms. “Wanted to know what the young Prince Consort wanted out of me. So I grew my hair out a little longer, have been sporting this beard more than I typically would. Even if I couldn't bring myself to touch you, even if jealousy tore at my innards. I always want to know.”

“You could've just asked me,” Harry grunted, pushing up against the heat of Prince Zayn's body. “I would have told you the truth – that I want everything from you. That I cannot keep secrets from you. Would never even dare.”

“Oh really?” Prince Zayn asked playfully. “Then tell me a secret.”

“I drive myself mad thinking about who you are confiding into instead of me,” Harry breathed. “I want to be your everything, if you would simply give me the chance.”

“Everything,” Prince Zayn repeated, face cloudy, difficult to read.

“You're everything to me,” Harry whispered. “I have my friends and I am grateful for all they have done to guarantee my comfort. But I also have you, and you are everything. The wind and the stars and the air in my lungs – nothing is more beautiful or more important than you. Why can't I be the same for you?”

Prince Zayn leaned forward, bumping his head against Harry's, their exhales almost perfectly in tune. “Whatever you want, love,” Prince Zayn murmured, pecking his mouth against Harry's. “Whatever you desire, I will get it for you.”

Harry nodded, sighing when Prince Zayn's hands dipped to tease against the laces of his breeches. “Do you really want to do this?” Harry asked. “Are we – do you really want to lay with me?”

“Yes,” Prince Zayn giggled. “So badly. Can you not feel it?”

“This?” Harry teased, brushing his hands against Prince Zayn's groin and almost going cross-eyed at the deep groan that escaped from Prince Zayn's mouth. “Fuck,” Harry cursed, eyes wide in wonder. “Are you going to be loud for me? Let everyone in the palace know what we are up to?”

“ _Please_ ,” Prince Zayn begged, his voice a high whine, and Harry could not move quickly enough, flipping them over so that the Prince was underneath him. Harry tossed his shirt off before latching his mouth to the Prince's again, the kiss wet, messy, and desperate. Harry brought his hands to trace the designs inscribed into the Prince's chest, Prince Zayn moaning when Harry's roaming fingertips brushed over pebbled nipples, and Harry swore against the Prince's lips before pulling away, tracing a path with his lips down the length of the Prince's body, from his bearded chin, down the length of his neck, and across his chest.

Prince Zayn was a squirming mess when Harry finally reached the top of his breeches, undoing the knot there with practiced ease and peeling the fabric away from the Prince's body. Harry lost all coherency when he finally got Prince Zayn nude, a whimper punched out of him as he took in the sweet honeyed tan of Prince Zayn's thighs and the thick curvature of his cock, the tip of which was already glistening wet. Prince Zayn did not have foreskin, which Harry knew was a custom although he had never seen it before, but when Harry took Prince Zayn in hand, he moaned soft and pretty nonetheless, Harry spitting down the length of him before taking the Prince's cock into his mouth, lapping at the wetness eking from the tip before swallowing around him.

Prince Zayn buried his fingers in Harry's hair and squeezed his eyes shut, bucking minutely down Harry's throat in sweet pulses of his hips. Harry lapped and sucked around the Prince greedily, tongue desperate for the salty-sweet taste of him. It had been so long since Harry had done something like this, but it was infinitely better, Prince Zayn's mouth a veritable source of absolute filthiness, goading Harry on with breathy exhalations and sugary curses. Harry reached down to palm at himself as he sucked hard along Prince Zayn's length, another stream of precome hitting the back of his throat while the Prince whined high and weak.

“I'm gonna – ” Prince Zayn mumbled, voice sounding shaky and bewildered. “Harry, I'm – ”

Harry pulled off with a wet pop. Prince Zayn whimpered, eyes wet as he took several deep, long breaths.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Harry asked once Prince Zayn's breathing pattern approximated something close to normal, although his cock was still straining against his stomach, pink and purple with his arousal. “What do you want to do?”

Prince Zayn shook his head. “I want to feel you inside of me.”

Harry frowned. “Are you sure? We don't have to – ”

“I want to,” Prince Zayn answered with a simple shrug. “I've – I have put fingers, before.” Harry didn't realize he was groping himself, squeezing at the length until Prince Zayn's eyes trained themselves on the motion, watching Harry's hand as though he were in a trance. “Of course, you are much bigger, but I want it. So, so badly.”

Harry nodded, untying the laces of his breeches and pushing them off, discarding them somewhere on the floor. Harry then reached over to his bedside table, grabbing the bottle of olive oil he had heretofore only used on himself. Harry uncapped it and spread a fair amount over his fingers, trying to still his racking nerves when he settled in between Prince Zayn's thighs and began kissing along the inside of his legs. Harry took the Prince's cock into his mouth again, Prince Zayn sighing and leaning his head back against the bed as Harry's mouth coaxed more heady moans out of him. Harry then took the opportunity to run the pad of his pointer finger over the Prince's entrance. Harry sucked especially hard along the thick vein on the underside of the Prince's cock when he began to press his finger forward, the Prince gasping when Harry simultaneously lapped around the slit of Prince Zayn's cock and crooked his finger and fucked into Prince Zayn with a long, leisurely push.

It almost seemed as though Harry's entire life was leading toward this exact moment, Prince Zayn's body putting up little resistance to the incremental intrusions by Harry's fingers. Prince Zayn was wanton, pushing down on Harry's fingers and clenching around him tight and hot, begging for more and more and _more_. Harry was so hard watching him, mesmerized by the small jumps of the Prince's stomach, the way he worried his bottom lip in between his teeth, and when Prince Zayn finally plead, “Fuck me, please, _Harry_ ,” Harry could hardly remove his fingers fast enough. Harry slipped his fingers out while Prince Zayn groaned and grabbed the bottle of oil again before slicking himself up, eyes going cross when Prince Zayn sat up and reached over to help, his hand twisting brutally on the upturn.

“I want you on top,” Harry gasped, fucking into the circle of Prince Zayn's fist. “Wanna watch you.”

“Yes,” the Prince groaned, pushing Harry against the mattress and leaning over him, sucking his way into Harry's mouth. Harry reached between their bodies to hold his cock upright, the wet tip sliding against Prince Zayn's hip. Harry pulled away from the kiss and nudged at Prince Zayn's lips until the Prince nodded, settling his knees on either side of Harry's waist.

“We'll go slow,” Harry mumbled. “Don't want to hurt you.”

Prince Zayn nodded, grabbing Harry's length and rubbing it against himself, hissing when the head of Harry's cock caught against his entrance. Harry watched him play, holding his breath and letting the Prince chase what felt best – Prince Zayn's wavy hair sticking to the side of his face, his chest sweat-slick and glistening, circumcised cock so hard it looked like it had to hurt. Prince Zayn was aching for it, it was obvious in the tremble of his thighs once he finally began to sink onto Harry's cock, his face pulling this tortured expression that almost looked heavenly in its beauty. Harry rubbed at the Prince's side, whispering sweet nothings and a chant of “I love you, I love you,” in between choked-off gasps, the Prince giggling even as his face continued to contort in discomfort. Harry reached upward and grabbed the Prince in hand again, jerking him hot and slow as the Prince fucked down onto Harry at a truly agonizing pace, a long, intoxicating heat that pulsed around Harry's length.

It could have been years before Prince Zayn was finally entirely seated on Harry, his face dazed and triumphant when Harry's pelvis came in contact with the back of Prince Zayn's thigh. Prince Zayn braced himself, leaning back and grasping Harry's legs, and then he was pulling upward, grunting loud but saccharine, those same little pulses of his hips as when he was fucking into Harry's mouth. It was like a scene straight out of Harry's deviant fantasies, the Prince digging his fingernails into Harry's thighs and fucking himself so good wetness dripped from his tip.

Harry came first, so concentrated on watching Prince Zayn that he didn't even realize he was on the edge until it was _right there_ , his orgasm less like a wrenching pull than an exhale, everything going startling still and right. The Prince made a low, confused noise at the sensation as Harry filled him up, but he continued to fuck himself onto Harry until Harry made a hissing noise and pulled out, feeling raw and sensitive but wanting to give it another go when he watched his come track out of Prince Zayn's hole.

Harry pulled Prince Zayn down to lay side by side, Harry wrapping his hand around Prince Zayn's cock while he pressed delicate kisses along the column of Prince Zayn's neck. The Prince was shaking minutely under Harry's ministrations, his eyes rolling back into his head as he came hot all over Harry's fist, slumping against Harry's collarbone with a groan. Harry pet the side of Prince Zayn's ribcage as he came down, whispering into Prince Zayn's hair and feeling so content with the universe that he didn't even know what to do with himself.

They fell asleep, sticky, wet and dirty, Harry's lips bumping against Prince Zayn's skin in their sleep. They were completely wrapped around each other, Prince Zayn clutching at Harry's hips as though he never wanted Harry to abandon his side. Harry had never felt so safe and so wanted.

 

Harry did not want to leave his bedchamber over the next day and a half, entirely content to hear Zayn's moans again and again _and again_ , but at some point in between rounds on top of Harry's sheets, Queen Patricia sent word that she would love to see her son again at some point, so Harry and the Prince bathed, wiping the evidence of multiple orgasms from their skin. They went down to dinner hand-in-hand, wrapped up in each other and completely indifferent to the opinions of anyone else, stupidly enamored with each other.

Harry was giggling at some joke the Prince made, the two of them half in each other's laps, when Kevin and Louis approached the royal table, twin expressions of unease on their faces. Zayn sighed and pulled away from Harry, annoyance dancing across his own countenance, barking out, “What?” as Louis came to stand directly in front of him.

“Rude,” Louis frowned. “I wasn't even coming to talk to you.”

Harry scoffed. “You wanted to speak with _me_?”

“There was someone at the gates,” Kevin interjected. “He says his name is Duke Nicholas Grimshaw and that he is here to see you.”

“Nick?” Harry gasped, squeezing Zayn's hand absentmindedly. “Nick is _here_?”

“He's waiting in the antechamber,” Louis replied as Harry stood, throwing his napkin onto the table and pulling Zayn up with him. “Harry – ”

Harry ignored Louis, briskly making his way out of the dining hall and down the long hallway that led to the main antechamber. Harry almost twisted his ankle running over to Nick, their bodies colliding when Harry threw himself at Nick in a crushing hug. Harry could feel the tears pooling at the side of his eyes when he pulled away and took in Nick's familiar face, a torrent of homesickness hitting him all at once.

Liam and Niall may have been Harry's most trusted companions at Harry's old court, but Nick was a very close third. Nick's mother was dear friends with Queen Anne, and Harry grew up wanting to be just like Nick, chasing after him and smiling blindly whenever Nick used to groan and tell Harry to go away. Nick was smart and charming, with a quick wit that Harry always envied, and Nick never judged when Harry embarked on escapades that could only end badly. Harry had tried to put Nick out of his mind, same as he had with every other fond memory regarding his homeland, but with Nick standing here, right in front of him, Harry could not stop the onslaught of emotions that overcame him.

“ _Nick_ ,” Harry gasped, burying his head in the crook of Nick's shoulder, his tongue dipping back into the language of his homeland with ease. “I've missed you so!”

Nick clutched at Harry, his fingers digging into Harry's ribcage. “Prince Harry,” Nick said with a wan smile. “It is – _gods_ , it is so good to see you.”

“Why – whatever are you doing here?” Harry asked, finally relinquishing his hold on Nick and standing back. The minute Harry did so, Harry could not help but wonder how he did not immediately notice the dark circles around Nick's eyes, the gray pallor to his skin. His robes were clean but dingy, and he appeared thinner than Harry ever remembered him. Nick could not seem to meet Harry's gaze and a heavy weight settled into Harry's stomach, burying itself deep into Harry's innards. Something was _wrong_. So very wrong. “Nick?” Harry tried again weakly. “What – what happened? Why are you here?”

Nick gulped and finally raised his eyes to meet Harry's. “I – I do not even know how to tell you this,” Nick said, shaking his head.

“Tell me _what_ , Nick?”

“Your mother,” Nick whispered. “Your mother. And the King – your stepfather. They – they're dead.”

Time stopped.

 

Harry knew that his wedding day was one of those moments in life that represent a fundamental rupture. It was easily the most beautiful day of his life, and the day and a half Harry had spent entwined and firmly in love with Prince Zayn were equally as enchanting.

If Harry was more versed, if he was more worldly, he would've known that such soaring heights would also be coupled by blinding lows. But he was young and naïve, and believed that life was fundamentally good. Harry forgot, even after the death of his father, that time in this world can be one set of crippling events after another. Harry forgot because Prince Zayn let him.

Once Nick's words finally registered, once Harry's brain and his soul were on the same thundering page, his knees gave out and he slumped to the ground, his heartbreak radiating throughout his extremities with such intense heat he felt as though he had been struck by lightning.

Harry knew it then – he would never be that silly little boy again.

And Harry knew immediately then, too, with the same surety that he knew the sun would rise the next morning and that he loved Prince Zayn – he would be witnessing war again. Very, very soon.

 

_**The Demise of Tessa The Wise** _

 

And on the eve of their fourth year together, Tessa the Wise departed the company of the Knight-Errant with tears and promises of a speedy reunion. The Knight-Errant held her close as her red hair dipped in the wind. He did not want to part, knowing in his heart that this would be the last time in this realm that he would ever hold Tessa in his embrace.

Tessa returned to the land of her birth and the ashes of her home and sought to build something for herself, erecting the foundation of a new life like the phoenix she had inked into her arm, wanting a new start for herself, one without endless adventures and silly tricks to play. After years of feeling homeless and unsettled, of turning westward and yearning for stability, Tessa wanted a quiet life, so when a young, bookish Prince ventured by her home, remarking on the skill with which she crafted a new existence for herself, a friendly man with a kind smile and comforting words of security, Tessa let herself be whisked away.

But the Prince was surrounded by cruel characters, ones that envied Tessa's popularity and her years of travel. They could not understand why anyone would want to settle down with such a boring, bookish Prince when she could still be having adventures with the Knight-Errant. The distrust ran deep, crystallizing into pure dislike, and over the years, the Prince gave into his own insecurities and the insinuations of his friends, withdrawing from Tessa until they were so distant that the Prince thought nothing of telling Tessa to leave court. Tessa packed up her clothes alongside her pride and returned to the slice of property she built, running careful fingers over the phoenix on her arm and reminding herself of all that she was, all that she could still be.

One night, as Tessa slept peacefully in her bed, the evil characters from court had a loud, raucous party, one that culminated in a traipse down to Tessa's property. They broke down her doors with hammers and swords and started a bonfire in her entertainment room, watching impassively as the licking flames consumed the entire house, same as it had twenty years previously. And so Tessa burned on the same scorched property that once housed her entire family, the heat so intense that there was nothing left of Tessa in the end but ash and the foundation.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry


	8. Part Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barely keeping everything together, hardly functioning, desperately wanting to return to bed and sleep forever, but his heart was still beating, and he was okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My betas are all amazing, but that's common knowledge by now. And you are all amazing, too, which is also common knowledge.

Zayn did not want Harry to sit in on the meeting, but Harry was loud and insistent. It was Harry's fucking mother they were talking about – it didn't matter that the wound this news caused was raw and fresh. Harry wanted to know, wanted to hear every excruciating detail for himself. He owed his family that much.

Harry had never been in this particular room of the palace before, and if the circumstances were different, Harry was sure that he would find the space extraordinarily gorgeous. It was a large reception room, sunny and airy with large rounded windows that overlooked the courtyard, exquisite artwork painted directly onto the walls of dark haired angels, sleek dragons, and a woman overlooking them all with a mysterious smile on her face. A large wooden table was placed in the middle of the space and Harry and Zayn were seated together at the head, Nick shown to a chair at Harry's right. Even the table was pleasing to the eye, with intricate designs etched into the table legs. All in all, a dazzling room. But considering the occasion, all of it seemed like a mockery. Harry had never felt so unaffected by beauty before. It was like the wonder and awe had been sucked out of him.

King Yaser was led into the room, flanked by the older gentlemen at court that served as his most trusted companions. They all appeared somber, and Harry had difficulty maintaining any of their gazes. At some point, Matty came in and took his seat next to Zayn. And then Liam and Niall were shown in, both looking as wrecked and confused as Harry felt.

Harry had no clue how he must have appeared in this moment, just knew that he did not want Zayn to leave his side, clutching at his husband's hand so hard that he knew he must be causing pain. But Zayn stoically endured it, occasionally pressing soft kisses to Harry's hairline and nosing at Harry's cheek, his breath coming in warm puffs against Harry's skin.

At some point, Louis had fetched Nick a cup of tea, presumably one laced with alcohol, and Nick clutched it in between shaky hands while Louis took a seat beside Nick to serve as a translator. Nick looked around the room, his face startling unreadable, but his eyes eventually rested on Harry and Prince Zayn's interlocked fingers, a hesitant smile blooming across his pale countenance.

“You look happy together,” Nick whispered, the lilt of their language jarring now that Harry knew he would never hear the familiar tongue in his mother's silky voice again. “Is he good to you?”

Harry tried his best to smile, but he was sure it looked far more like a grimace. “I love him.”

It wasn't an answer and Harry was sure that both of them knew it. Nick nodded nonetheless as the rest of the men in the room fell eerily silent. The King cleared his throat and stood, his purple robes billowing around him with every slight movement.

“Men, this is Duke Nicholas Grimshaw of the Holmes Kingdom,” King Yaser stated as introduction, inclining his head in Nick's direction. “He has come here today to seek sanctuary within our land's borders, and he requested a meeting to discuss the conditions that led to his forced exodus from Holmes. We ask that you hold any questions until he completely finishes his tale. I understand that parts of this meeting may be exceedingly difficult, so if any of you need to leave for any reason, I – and Prince Zayn – will not hold it against you.” King Yaser turned to Harry and held his gaze, Harry nodding minutely as the King regained his seat and Louis finished whispering the translation into Nick's ear.

Nick took a deep breath and angled his body towards Harry, chewing his already chapped lips to shreds. “I – I think I can carry on enough without Duke Tomlinson serving as translator,” Nick said, his voice hesitant and low in the language of Prince Zayn's people. “I will ask for his assistance if a word fails me, but. The long journey at least offered me the opportunity to practice.”

King Yaser bowed his head and smiled encouragingly. “However you wish to communicate your tale, young Duke.”

It was like everything in the universe narrowed down to this moment. Harry could hear every stuttered breath, every faltering heartbeat, his senses amplified. Nick licked over his lips before letting his eyes raise to meet Harry's, his gaze infinitely sad. His hands, where he held them on top of the table, continued to shake around his cup of tea.

“Things have not been good in the kingdom for a very long time,” Nick started, shaking his head minutely. “We all know that. It goes – it preceded King Styles' death, but following the peace treaty and Prince Harry's betrothal and removal from court, things took a very unsettling turn. At the time, I did not see it, but now, I cannot help but wonder how I.” Nick stopped suddenly, biting his lip furiously. Harry exhaled loudly and chewed the inside of his own cheek, digging his nails into the palms of Zayn's hand.

When Nick resumed his story, his voice was louder but devoid of emotion. “Prince Harry had been betrothed to the daughter of a warrior chieftain and Earl at birth, and although the betrothal had essentially been broken long before the peace treaty, the Earl threw a fit when word came that the Prince would be leaving Holmes and becoming your kingdom's Prince Consort. The Earl took it as a personal affront, complained that the abandonment would reflect poorly on his daughter's honor. In order to shut him up, the Queen arranged for the daughter to marry some nobleman – I forget his name, it's hardly even important now. Nonetheless, it was a good match, and the wedding was to be held at one of the Queen's handful of properties.”

Harry shivered, knowing immediately which of the castles Nick was referring to. Their winter property, the castle that had been overrun and burned to the ground by missionaries. The same beautiful slice of land that Harry would run across with chubby, pigeon-toed legs as a little boy. Harry remembered suddenly that his mother was looking into having it rebuilt when he was forced to leave, and another shaky exhalation escaped from his mouth before he could even think about holding it in. It was just – how could Harry have forgotten? Had he truly been _that_ consumed with his own selfish desires? The mountainous castle had been Queen Anne's favorite, too, and of course she would be taking on new tasks without either of her children around to dote upon, would want to return to the property that had once provided her and her family with so much joy, would want to host events there and make the halls beautiful again. Welcoming.

Queen Anne was such a warmhearted woman. Harry's chest throbbed, the pain sharp and intense. Zayn brought his free hand and laid it on top of Harry's knee, catching it with a warm, grounding squeeze.

“I didn't – I did not want to go,” Nick said, gulping long and dry. “My mother forced me, said it would be in poor form if I did not at least make an appearance. I understood how it would look – Prince Harry and I were so close, and it was known that the Earl's daughter and I did not get along. So I made myself leave court, and the whole ride up, I had this awful feeling in my stomach. Like – like something terrible was going to happen and I needed to turn around.” Nick laughed self-deprecatingly and grimaced. “I told myself I was being silly. Sure, I was going to be around the Earl and all of his disgusting men and it would not be pleasant, but there would be free wine and I was sharing a carriage with Cara and Aimee – both daughters of Dukes themselves. It – everything would be fine.

“We arrived at the castle the night before the wedding and made plans to leave immediately after the reception. The ceremony itself was unremarkable, all things considered, and we were shepherded into the dining hall for dinner. I tired of it all very quickly. Cara, Aimee, and myself decided to take our glasses of wine outside and went to stand by the creek.”

Harry presumed that Queen Anne insisted upon duplication of the original castle layout, which meant that the creek that cut through the mountain property was about a ten minute walk from the rear of the building. Within shouting distance, certainly, but still far enough away from the back entrance to grant a semblance of privacy. Harry was too young to participate in such habits before the castle was burned down, but that creek had always been somewhere Nick liked to indulge in illicit activities during major events, whether that meant quietly drinking the opium tea that Queen Anne always frowned upon, or falling to his knees before a married man away from the inquisitive eyes of his wife and the rest of court. It was a hiding place. Their hiding place.

“We didn't realize anything was amiss at first,” Nick said, licking his lips. “It's always so quiet up there. Noises from the village can trickle upwards, but. It's quiet for the most part. Then things went startling still. I've never heard such bone-chilling silence before. Whatever we were laughing about – we all stopped in unison, almost. I remember Cara grabbed my shoulder and I thought she was trying to spook me. And then I heard it. The first scream. It – it _echoed_.”

  


Whatever thin tether had been holding Harry to the moment snapped and Harry blinked, his mind shifting between different planes of being almost seamlessly. Harry wasn't quite sure how to explain it, unsure whether it was a waking dream or not, but it was almost like Harry was there himself. He had had a similar experience before with Caroline, but the flickering image she had been able to project into Harry's mind was nothing this intense, Harry feeling as though his consciousness had gained the ability to recreate Nick's tale with cruel accuracy. It _had_ to be magic.

And so Harry found himself standing next to Nick on a bit of territory he hadn't visited since he was a child who thought one could catch fish with tiny hands, the night air brisk and cutting. Nick was wearing his usual heavy dress robes, a loose black garment over a smart chemise and navy breeches, his boots squelching in the mud by the creek's edge. Nick's hair flopped over his forehead as he turned toward the shrill yell, Cara's hand still sitting heavily on top of his shoulder, manicured fingernails digging into the material of his robe.

“You heard that?” Cara hissed. “It wasn't just me – you _heard_ that?”

And then there they were again – louder, more than one voice, all of them unifying into one horrific wail. Screams that sliced through the night and made Harry's heart stop.

“That's not coming from the villages below,” Aimee said, her own shoes slipping in the mud as she dropped her goblet into the creek, the heavy gold cup drifting through rocks downstream. “My gods – ”

“Hush!” Nick said, shaking Cara off and walking backwards through the thick mud, further away from the castle. Harry could see the way Nick's mind was working furiously, his easygoing demeanor stripped away as he began piecing together what must be going on within those shut doors. “We – they don't know we're out here.”

“Nick – ” Aimee protested.

“ _They don't know we're out here_!” Nick whispered, louder and more urgently. “Whatever is happening – we need to hide before they realize we're gone.”

“ _Nick_ ,” Cara moaned but Nick grabbed her by the arm and shushed her again, pulling her deeper into the thicket by the creek, the ends of their clothing drifting through mud and brush. Aimee had a moment of indecision but a loud series of bangs came from the doors of the castle and Aimee threw her hands over her mouth and followed Cara and Nick deeper into the woods, the three of them finally settling on the other side of the creek's bed, all crouched behind a felled tree. Cara was crying silently, large streams of tears eking down her face, and Aimee still had her hand clutched over her mouth, fingernails digging into her cheeks so hard there were red indentations. Nick seemed to only be concentrating on silently patting through his pockets. Harry could hear his own father's voice loud and clear as the moments stretched on. _Never go anywhere without a weapon, Harry_. _Always be aware of your surroundings_. _Have at least three exits in mind whenever you enter an unfamiliar room_. And finally, _Be smart, remain calm, and the answer will present itself to you_.

Nick fished a dagger from deep inside of his robes, clutching it between his hands while Cara tried not to wail, her head buried in between her knees.

They were deep enough in the woods that Harry was certain they could not be seen, but his three friends still jerked backwards when the castle doors went flying open, men jeering as they dragged several struggling women outside. The Queen was one of them, a ferocious gaping wound slashed across her chest and smearing her exquisite sapphire dress with redness. Harry felt something heavy drop into his own guts, his hands trembling as he took in the sight. His mother was already dying, her fetter to life pulsing languidly as her eyes drooped and her skin lost its healthy glow. The men were jostling her, yelling and berating her like she was _nothing_ , as though she had not been their friend, had not entertained them all for dinner and helped orchestrate a peace treaty that allowed their sons the opportunity to grow old. Yet Harry knew he could take comfort in the fact that she was already dying when they threw her down to enact unspeakable deeds, the sort of violence only a coward would perform, Queen Anne's body making a sick crunch as it hit the frosty ground. She stopped moving, her body coating the growth underneath her with blood, and the men had the audacity to boo, the Queen depriving them of the opportunity to do any additional violence to her as a living woman. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Aimee's eyes were wide saucers and Cara was chanting prayers under her breath, but Nick clutched the weapon in his hand harder, Harry seeing in Nick's eyes the resolve to live and tell of these horrors crystallizing. “Which men are those?” Nick hissed. “Aimee?”

“The Earl and all of his countrymen,” Aimee whispered. “I do not see the King. Or – or any of _us_.”

“This was a trap,” Cara gasped. “Oh gods, all of this – they _wanted_ us to all be in one room – ”

“We'll deal with the implications later,” Nick said, putting a finger to his mouth and gesturing back towards the castle. Harry could not be sure that their voices did not carry with the wind, but the traitors seemed otherwise occupied with continuing their harassment of the remaining women, prodding at them with the ends of their swords as though the women were cattle and laughing. Nick turned away and surveyed the rest of the woods, eyes darting through the darkness. “We're what – five miles away from your family home, Cara?” Nick hissed. “The one up here in the mountains?”

“Yes,” Cara gulped, nodding her head energetically. “Well, more like ten. But – doable. Walkable.”

“They'll expect us to go there,” Aimee pointed out. “Once they realize they haven't killed us, once they realize we're missing.”

“Then where do we go?” Cara asked, her voice low but hysterical. “We cannot just traverse the main roads, either! They'll be searching those as well!”

“We'll need to get out of the country either way,” Nick said. “It doesn't matter how – ”

“What do you mean – get out of the country?” Cara gulped.

“They just killed the Queen, Cara,” Aimee hissed. “You said it yourself. This was very clearly a trap – they are in the middle of orchestrating a coup. If we want to live – if we want to live _we need to go_.”

A fresh wave of screams erupted from inside of the castle and then came the first crackle of fire. Cara stood suddenly and ran deeper into the woods, her figure quickly swallowed up by the night.

“Fuck,” Aimee cursed, tugging at Nick's robes. “Fuck, _Nick_ – ”

“If it's meant to be, we'll find her,” Nick said, standing himself and grabbing Aimee with his free hand. “Our paths will intersect and we'll carry on together. If it's meant to be, okay? We'll travel downhill – seek sanctuary at the old ruins long enough to find ourselves horses, and carry on until we reach the coast. No stopping. No matter what – we keep running.”

“Nick,” Aimee whispered but Harry knew – Nick couldn't even think about Cara right now. Couldn't think about the Queen, or whatever sort of desecration these men were enacting upon the King. Nick couldn't even think about his own mother, sure as Harry was that she was somewhere within those burning castle walls. Nick was focused on one solitary goal, and it was leading him westward toward the sea. Toward Harry.

“Are you with me, Aimee?” Nick whispered, the leaping flames from the burning castle illuminating Aimee's face with morbid shadows.

“Yes,” Aimee murmured and Nick nodded once, grabbing her by the hand and dragging her into the thicket, neither of them turning back to watch the castle go up in flames.

Harry knew without Nick even needing to say it that they never did find out where Cara went, or what became of her.

And Harry innately knew what all of this violence spelled for his homeland.

What it meant that the corpses of the Queen and her second husband were both thrown over the side of the mountain and left for scavengers.

What it meant that those members of the nobility not in attendance at the wedding were fleeing, and that the Earl was destroying every single space of sanctuary in the kingdom.

Harry was sure that this cowardly Earl had already instated himself as king and was prosecuting anyone with ties to the Styles lineage. And like the craven he was, his eyes would eventually turn westward, toward the Styles son, thousands of miles away but a legitimate threat and one who would most certainly be out for revenge.

Because Harry was. His entire body thrummed with the urge, was consumed by it as though it were a sickness infecting the entirety of his being. Harry pulsed with the desire to paint Holmes red with traitor blood. It was heady and terrifying, but beyond the grief, it was the only thing Harry could even feel anymore.

  


Harry blinked and he suddenly realized that he was no longer a participant in that horrific waking nightmare. In fact, Nick had stopped talking completely and the reception room was back to its earlier eerie silence, everyone seemingly locked deep in their own thoughts. The King appeared troubled, was staring at his hands where they were clasped in front of him on the table, deep worry lines etched into the taut skin around his mouth. Liam and Niall were both white as a sheet, Niall's coloring also tinged with unsavory greenness. Nick sighed, long and dissatisfied, before burying his head in his hands, and Louis was staring straight ahead, so far removed that Harry did not have the faintest clue what he was thinking.

Harry let his eyes roam over to Zayn's and found that he couldn't read Zayn's expression either. Zayn just appeared painfully blank, hazel eyes as closed off as a prison.

Harry realized with frightening clarity that everyone of importance, everyone he loved who was still thankfully alive, save for his sister Gemma, was currently in the same room as him. This beautiful room in Jinan where it wasn't ever cold, the same city where he had wedded the love of his life, been spoiled and taken care of. Where Harry had spent the last two months playing vapid mind games with Zayn.

Two months of absolute silliness in retrospect. Harry almost forgot that it took about two months to travel from Holmes Kingdom to Jinan's city walls, give or take.

Harry wondered what he had been doing the exact moment his mother died, wondered if he had been sitting around thinking about gifts and trinkets.

Harry bowed his head, trying to keep down his own bile, and fled to his chambers.

  


When Harry's father died, Harry felt infinitely disoriented. He was young and abandoned and sad, but he understood the encounter with death for what it was. His father had lived a long life, and he was a warrior first and foremost. He died in battle, noble and proud, leaving behind an impressive legacy and scores of men and women who loved him. Harry missed his father, but Harry's only regret was not getting to know his father better, learning more about the man behind the crown, the sort of remorse anyone has upon the death of a beloved.

But now that Harry's mother was gone – Harry was not sure there was even a word to describe the gaping sense of deprivation Harry felt like hollow holes in his bones. Harry could not make sense of the tragedy, did not understand how another man could justify the desecration and dishonor that had been served to Queen Anne. It went beyond cruelty and entered into a realm of barbarity Harry could not make sense of.

Harry wasn't sure how long he had been sitting alone in his chambers by himself, staring out of his window and cursing the sun for shining. Like the young, naive boy sitting in his carriage traveling across Holmes, seaward bound, Harry foolishly wished that it was raining, wished that the weather could match his own irascible mood.

But Harry wished for a lot of things, and instead of rain, Harry got the young Prince instead, Zayn entering Harry's rooms and closing the doors heavily behind him, his shoulders slumped as though he was carrying the entirety of the world on top of them. Perhaps he was.

Harry hardly stirred as Zayn approached him, pressing soft kisses to Harry's neck and wrapping his arms around Harry's middle. But Harry did not know he was crying either, not until a sob tore through his chest and he felt the splash of tears on his hands. Zayn held him through it, his grip tight but sure, and Harry let himself feel every searing remorse, every incensed thought. Chased his emotions and his demons to their darkest, deepest recesses until he was raw and spent, too dehydrated to do anything more but let Zayn put him to bed. Harry fell asleep with his head buried in the crook of Zayn's neck, the collar of Zayn's shirt wet where it collected the tears coursing down Harry's cheeks.

  


Harry woke alone, feeling lost and even more fatigued than when he first fell asleep. All of the windows in his quarters were covered over in thick, heavy curtains, so Harry was unsure what time of day it was, but the spot next to Harry's body was still warm. Harry fought back against the torrent of emotions that flooded through him the moment he pushed himself from the mattress, clenching down on his despair and doing his best to ignore it. Harry couldn't – he was not capable of dealing with his confusion or feelings of loss right now. It hurt too much and Harry could not let his mind chase itself down endless rabbit holes, through the shadows and into the dark morass. He just needed to find Zayn.

Harry's back was stiff when he made his way across the bedroom, knocking on the doors to get the attention of whichever servants were standing guard. Thankfully only Kevin was keeping watch, perched on his favorite stool, reading a book and looking rather bored, but he promised to call up some girls to help Harry bathe and get dressed, his eyes kind but thankfully not pitying.

“Do you know where the Prince went?” Harry asked, fidgeting a bit with the hem of his night clothes. Harry couldn't even remember putting them on – only remembered falling asleep, fully clothed, with Prince Zayn at his side. “He was here earlier.”

“You've been asleep for three days,” Kevin answered delicately. “The Prince stayed with you for as long as he could, but his duties could only be put on hold for so long. I'm unsure where he is currently. Perhaps you would like to wait for him? I'm sure he will return the moment he hears you are up.”

Harry hummed noncommittally, his anxiety spreading like hot cords underneath his skin. “I mean – I would like it if you can get a hold of him. Let him know that I need him.”

Kevin nodded and placed his manuscript onto his stool. “No worries, Your Highness. I will find him and let him know.”

Harry bit his lip and nodded, turning back to his bedroom. With the windows drawn, without Prince Zayn or Niall or Liam or even Louis to help fill the space with their brilliant presence, the room felt almost cacophonous, the inside of Harry's head and its discordant melody only amplified by his sheer loneliness. Harry moved quickly, drawing the blinds and blinking through the harsh light, running his fingers against the window pane and letting his eyes roam across the grounds, desperately trying to tell himself that the world was still beautiful. The men who populated this plane of existence were ugly, grotesque beasts, but nature itself, the world in all of its splendor – that was still beautiful.

It felt like falsities even as the words ran laps through Harry's skull, but Harry knew that if he repeated this phrase enough, perhaps it would become true. Harry would not let himself become jaded. His mother would've hated for that to happen.

Harry was still dazedly looking out the window when two female servants entered, guiding him so he could take his bath and dress. Harry's mind was whirring so quickly, running through everything he heard from Nick that he forced himself to concentrate on his sense of touch instead. The way his clothes draped over his skin, the softness of his leather accessories. Harry still had no idea what time of day it was and Zayn had yet to return, but his clothes felt nice, so he was okay.

Barely keeping everything together, hardly functioning, desperately wanting to return to bed and sleep forever, but his heart was still beating, and he was okay.

  


Harry was feeling restless and impulsively decided that he would like to take a walk. He rebuffed Kevin's suggestion to invite along Niall or Liam or even Nick, but instead asked Kevin to accompany him, instead. Kevin looked dubious but lead Harry to the castle grounds nonetheless, his stiff posture and assessing eyes bringing the ghost of a smile to Harry's face as they roamed the perimeter, boots shuffling and crunching on burnt orange leaves. It was late evening, the sun dipping low in its track across the sky, the horizon streaking reds, purples, yellows. Normally this sight would bring a tremendous swelling to Harry's heart. Instead, Harry felt nothing.

“I wish,” Harry started. But he wasn't sure how to finish, so he let the words sit heavily in the still air between them.

  


Harry continued to feel weak, despondent, and anxious when he returned to his rooms, stripping his clothes off and lying nude on top of his sheets. Everything ached and whenever Harry closed his eyes his mind conjured a hellish nightmare. A small, selfish part of Harry wished that he had never been told of his mother's fate, wished he could live in happy obliviousness for the rest of his life. It would be preferable to this deep well of guilt and regret, mind repeating over and over all of the what-could-have-been's, all the ways he had failed his family.

Kevin tried to get Harry to eat, but Harry wasn't hungry. He just wanted to sleep. So he did.

  


Harry blinked awake, hot beams of light streaming through the room from the windows Harry forgot to close. Harry groaned loudly at the harassment against his sensitive eyes but slapped a hand over his mouth when he realized that Zayn was curled up against him, their bare legs tangled underneath the covers, Zayn's leg hairs tickling Harry's calves. Harry wasn't sure when Zayn had come to bed, but Harry was infinitely glad that Zayn was there with him. Harry cuddled against Zayn's front, burying his face against Zayn's chest and ghosting his fingers across Zayn's hip, his breath catching in his throat when Zayn sleepily pulled him closer, muttering comforting nonsense against Harry's hair while Harry just breathed Zayn in.

Zayn eventually stirred himself, his grip tightening against Harry's back. Harry could feel Zayn inhale sharply and Harry shook his head, his hair brushing against Zayn's chin.

“Whatever it is – I don't want you to worry about me right now,” Harry mumbled. “I just wanna lay like this. Is that all right?”

Zayn dug his fingers into Harry's hair, tugging softly at the tangles he encountered as he tried to scratch against Harry's scalp. “It's my duty to worry,” Zayn answered, his voice just as soft.

“I still wish you wouldn't.”

“And I still have to.”

Harry sighed, nipping his teeth against Zayn's collarbone and huffing slightly. “I wish I could run away from it all. It hurts _so much_ , Zayn. And I don't. I don't know what to do.”

Zayn was silent for a long time, his breaths coming in little puffs against Harry's hairline. When he finally spoke, he squeezed his fingers against Harry's side, muttering, “We could run away, you know. Just you and me.”

Harry tilted his head to better examine Zayn, Harry's eyes crossing as he tried to take in Zayn's beauty. Even this early in the morning, with stale breath and long, sleep-tousled locks, Zayn was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen. Harry might not be able to appreciate the exquisiteness of art or the delicacy of nature, but it was reassuring to know that even in the midst of such tragedy, Harry could still take a moment to contemplate the sheer handsomeness of his husband.

“We could?” Harry whispered, not wanting to get his hopes up. “We could run away?”

“Anywhere you want to go,” Zayn answered, pressing his lips against Harry's before brushing his thumb underneath Harry's eyelid, smiling when Harry frowned. “Anywhere, love. Just you. And me.”

Harry tapped his index and middle fingers against Zayn's cupid bow, nodding slowly.

Running away did sound very nice.

  


Harry didn't really know where he wanted to go, only knew that he needed to get _away_ , so Zayn took him to the mountains of their honeymoon, the ride up seeming like a strange inversion of their journey only six months earlier. This time, the sides of their unmarked carriage were kept up the entire ride without a single well-aimed peach thrown their way, and Harry didn't dare leave Zayn's side, could feel his entire body freeze up anytime their fingers ceased to touch. Harry managed to sleep fitfully during the journey, stirring long enough to guarantee that Zayn was still beside him before drifting off once more.

There were only a handful of servants on duty at the house and Harry was glad that he would not have to maintain the pretense of the happy, charming Prince. He and Zayn dined together, arms still interlinked, and Harry let himself be led to bed, Zayn stripping him and dressing him in his bed clothes, ghosting his fingers over Harry's groin as he did so, almost like a promise of what was still on the table, if Harry wanted it.

And Harry did, more than anything. But he was tired and so they only slept.

So it went for the next handful of days. Harry busied himself with books, tried to keep his mind occupied, and Zayn looked over reports that arrived every morning from the capital. They rode horses together in the evening, exploring trails and neglected paths, Zayn even promising that one day they would journey to a secluded lake together, and then they returned back to the house for dinner, sitting together and simply enjoying each other's company, exchanging quiet words before the fireplace. Harry was still sad, but every day he could appreciate the stark beauty of the mountains more and more, his memory conjuring neglected memories of a once happy family, and he could also feel himself falling deeper and deeper in love with Zayn with every moment they spent together. Harry was endlessly enamored with Zayn's fond smiles whenever he thought Harry wasn't looking, with his anecdotes about the countryside and his introspective intelligence. Zayn would never be a boisterous lover, Harry could see that now, but it was obvious that he did care, in the way he held Harry as they went to sleep every night and in the press of his lips against Harry's tear stained cheeks.

  


During the fifth day up in the mountains, a report came in from the capital that monopolized Zayn's entire day. They were unable to take their usual ride through the woods and Harry could tell that Zayn was frustrated once he finally re-emerged from hours of work, smudges of darkness under his eyes. Harry wanted to ask if the reports were about Holmes, but he didn't.

They dined together as the day hurtled toward evening, knees and elbows bumping into each other as they ate, and Harry cleared his throat halfway through the meal, turning to Zayn with an imploring expression.

“You said there's a lake near the house,” Harry said.

“Yes,” Zayn nodded, chewing his flat bread contemplatively. “About an hour's ride. Maybe less.”

Harry ducked his head, letting the long strands fall into his eyes. “I think we should go visit it. Tonight is supposed to be a full moon – I imagine that it would be impressive to see the moon's reflection on the lake's surface.”

Zayn tilted Harry's face upward and pushed curls out of Harry's eyelashes. Harry knew that Zayn's eyes were hazel, the color of honey and tree sap, but sometimes his irises seemed infinitely dark. “Anything you want,” Zayn murmured, each syllable sounding like a promise, and he sealed his words with a light kiss.

It was about sunset when they set off together, Harry opting to just sit with Zayn on the back of his mare, emotionally depleted and weak as Harry still was. Harry and Zayn made idle conversation as they wound their way westward and downhill, Zayn expertly navigating the path even as it became overgrown with trees and harder to make out with the advancing darkness of dusk. They made good time, arriving at the edge of the lake before nightfall had descended completely, Zayn leaping off his horse before holding his hand up to help Harry descend. Zayn wrapped his hands around Harry's middle and buried his nose into the crook of skin between neck and shoulder, squeezing when Harry exhaled and took in the sight in front of him.

Harry's first thought – silly and absurd – was that the moon _did_ look nice where it was peeking through the trees, its slanting light wafting insect-like over the lake's smooth surface. The lake was almost morbidly still, purples and blues that coaxed Harry to its edge with whispers of quiet and serenity. Harry was taking off his clothes before he even thought about it, discarding his boots and every other article of clothing on a particularly large rock before making his way to the water's edge, dipping his toe into the lake and watching as it sent ripples through the surface.

The water's temperature was brisk but not entirely unpleasant and Harry walked further into the lake, dunking his head underneath the surface and taking a long shuddering breath when he reemerged. His teeth were chattering and he was sure that his lips were probably close to blue, but Harry welcomed the cold. It felt like home, and if he could feel the chill, he was most certainly still alive, and that was reassuring.

Harry swam deeper into the water, relishing in the feeling of weightlessness and solitude. Harry saw a few animals curiously regard him from the lake's shore, peeking from around boulders and trees, but Harry knew that he and Zayn were the only humans around for miles, and Zayn seemed content to watch Harry from the rock Harry had thrown his clothes onto. Zayn had since collected Harry's belongings into his lap and was smiling tenderly, his countenance almost angelic in the hazy moonlight.

Harry made his way back over to the rock, pushing himself onto it with his forearms and leaning forward to kiss Zayn, wondering if he tasted like lake water. Zayn didn't seem to mind, running his hands over Harry's wet face and pushing slick strands out of Harry's eyes.

“Come swim with me,” Harry plead.

“I don't know how to,” Zayn answered, a blush spreading across his cheeks. “I never learned.”

“I can teach you.”

“It's okay. I like watching you.”

Harry grinned, quick and wicked. “Yeah?”

“Always,” Zayn answered, the sudden dart of his tongue over his lips mesmerizing. “You know, according to legend, Elenei was a mermaid before she became mortal.”

“I think I remember this story,” Harry said, kicking his feet out behind him in the water. “She was the daughter of the sea god and a wind god, yes?”

“Right,” Zayn replied. “It's reassuring to know that some stories transcend boundaries.”

“What made you think of that?”

Zayn shrugged, smiling at Harry fondly. “Just that you look at peace when you're swimming. You're so beautiful.”

Harry laughed and ducked his head, knowing he must have looked so in love when he glanced back up at Zayn. Zayn's own smile gave way to something darker and he pushed Harry's clothes off of his lap and onto a patch of grass, murmuring, “Come up here.”

Harry nodded and pushed himself completely onto the rock, leaning over Zayn and dripping water all over him. Zayn didn't seem to mind, just buried his fingers in Harry's hair and pressed their mouths together, Harry groaning and immediately sliding his lips apart when Zayn brought his other hand to rest on the damp skin of Harry's waist.

It was a slow and unhurried kiss, the slide of their lips as steady as the passage of time, and Harry knew there were goosebumps covering his skin, but he still never felt warmer, his cock thickening and pushing up against Zayn's thigh. Zayn grinned against Harry's mouth and pulled away, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark when he wrapped his fingers around Harry, stroking experimentally while Harry whined.

“I've got you,” Zayn said, letting go of Harry's cock before reaching up and grabbing Harry's breeches and shirt, spreading them on top of the rock. “Lay on these,” Zayn commanded and Harry nodded dazedly, body trembling with anticipation. In the handful of hours between their first time and Nick's arrival, Harry and Zayn had most certainly attempted to make up for all of the lost moments, fucking almost rabidly, but Zayn had yet to be inside of Harry the way Harry most desired. Harry wanted Zayn desperately, craved that last degree of intimacy, but his mind had naturally been elsewhere, and he had even forgotten about it over the last week or so.

That being said, Harry was not expecting for Zayn to push Harry's cheeks apart and breath over his entrance, licking a broad stroke around the rim. Harry bucked forward, fingers scrambling for purchase on the rock, and he moaned high and needy, entirely caught off guard but far from displeased. No one had ever done that to Harry before and it felt _so good_ , Zayn seemingly encouraged by Harry's first desperate whine as he licked, sucked, and nipped at the sensitive skin around Harry's hole. Harry could not remember the last time he felt so hot, panting and squeezing his eyes as both his cock and the wetness from his hair made an absolute mess of his clothing, everything damp and frantic. When Zayn finally broached him with his tongue Harry's arms shook with pleasure, a bliss that only built when Zayn pressed in a spit-wet finger, and then another, and another. Harry was a wild, sputtering mess, capable of only screaming out, “Yes” and “More” and “ _Please_ ,” his entire vocabulary reduced to one-syllable words and Zayn's name.

Harry wasn't even sure when Zayn found the time to undo the laces of his own breeches and get himself in hand, only knew that the head of Zayn's cock felt as close to heaven as Harry had ever experienced. Harry's arms were straining with the effort of keeping himself upright but he was patient, eager to feel the slide of Zayn inside of him, desperate for every fragment of himself that Zayn was willing to lend him.

It was hot and wet, the roll of Zayn's hips and the high moon making Harry feel invincible. The entire world might be out to destroy Harry, but he had Zayn pressing his chest against Harry's back, mouthing treasure troves of endearments into Harry's shoulder, cock firmly nestled against that spot in Harry that made his eyes cross, so Harry was still the winner, would always be the winner, was even going to be King with Zayn at his side. The world might be cruel, but this was still beautiful, Zayn wrapping his hands around Harry's cock, flicking his fingers just the right way until Harry came, collapsing on top of his clothes in a heap. Zayn pulled out, Harry flinching at the drag, but then he was coming as well, hot spurts of semen decorating Harry's back.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Harry gasped, watching as Zayn's breath evened out and he began lacing his breeches back up again.

“Do what?”

“With your tongue.”

Zayn pulled a quizzical face, one that Harry did not understand. “I – I heard some of the other boys talking about it before.”

It felt like a lie, but Harry did not want to push or pry. Instead, Harry jumped back into the water when his limbs no longer felt wobbly, the milky white of Zayn's come mixing with the inky darkness of the lake.

  


They were about halfway back to the main house when they encountered a tabby on the path. The cat meowed plaintively at Zayn, who alighted from his mare and scooped the animal up into his arms, cooing at it and depositing the cat into Harry's hands while he pulled himself back onto the horse. A shudder went up Harry's spine as he regarded the animal, sure as he was that it looked familiar, but also certain that it was not one of the cats from Zayn's barn a few miles east.

It wasn't until they were back at the house, Zayn holding the cat in his arms as they prepared for bed, that Harry knew where he had seen the damn tabby before. Zayn left the room, mumbling to himself about needing to find a bite to eat, when Harry turned toward the animal, tapping his feet against the ground and cursing his own stupidity.

“Caroline,” Harry hissed, his anger swelling so quickly that Harry could feel his stomach ache. “How _dare_ you.”

In a blink of an eye the cat was gone, replaced with an abashed and very much human Caroline. She was wearing a modest white dress, her hair pulled back into a simple bun, but she held her head proud, her power making her appear taller and more imposing than she was. Harry could hardly even bear to look at her, instead made his way across the room and sat at the foot of the bed, burying his head in his hands and running his fingers through his own tangles.

“I cannot believe you have the gall to make an appearance right now. Were you watching Zayn and I earlier like the perverse voyeur you are? I know that you are _always_ watching.”

“Harry – ”

“No,” Harry interrupted, raising his head to glare at Caroline. His heart felt like solid iron even as it beat a marching song in his chest. “No, don't you dare. Don't you dare pretend as though you aren't always around and don't you _dare_ tell me that you didn't know about my mother.”

Caroline's eyes flashed red. “But I didn't,” she countered, crossing her arms across her chest defensively. “My magic only extends so far. I knew that something was amiss – ”

“Something? Only _something_?”

“But I only detected that something was off because of your husband's secrecy,” Caroline spat. “So perhaps you should ask him what he already knew before Nick came limping through Jinan.” The room felt choked by silence, Harry holding his breath as he watched the rise and fall of Caroline's bosom as she attempted to collect herself. It was a process, uncrossing her arms and unclenching her fists, shaking herself violently as a lock of hair dislodged itself from her bun. The way she disassembled her anger reminded Harry suddenly of Louis, standing on the hot beach together and watching as Louis closed himself off when Matty told Louis he could not go to Abbas for a holiday. Harry could not understand why his mind supplied the image.

“What would I possibly have to gain from playing games with you, Harry?” Caroline asked softly. “Do you honestly think that low of me? I served your mother personally, was one of her most trusted Ladies. For every day for _years_ I was by her side. I loved that woman. How could I ever – ?”

Caroline trailed off, taking a step back and leaning her head against the wall. Harry scrubbed at his face again, feeling so tired and lost he didn't know what to do. He wished that his mother was there to make everything right again, just as mothers are wont to.

“You think that Zayn knew something about the massacre?” Harry said, licking over his lips. “Like what?”

“I cannot be sure,” Caroline admitted with a delicate shake of her head. “That boy of yours is impossible to follow at times.”

“How?” Harry asked, baffled. “You're a witch. You followed me from one continent to another, you followed me here to the mountains, you are always at least one step ahead – ”

“If you ever took your head out of your rectum long enough to _listen_ to me, you would know that I'm not the only witch or warlock around!” Caroline huffed.

“ _What_?”

Caroline groaned and sat down on the floor, kicking out at the folds of her dress in order to get comfortable. This was the most agitated Harry had seen Caroline in a long time. Harry knew that witches were capable of emotion, of course he did, but ever since Caroline revealed her magical ability to Harry, she had always projected this sense of aloofness and distant intelligence, as though she rose above base human desires. All of that pretense was gone, now. “When you first arrived in this godforsaken kingdom. I visited you. And I told you, then.”

Harry cast his memory back, the image returning to him in a blur. Caroline standing before him in a white linen dress and turquoise shawl, her entire countenance bathed in the stark sunshine of the coast. “ _This entire house hums with magic, you know_ ,” Caroline had said with a smirk, her incisors sharp when she turned to regard Harry. “ _Thrumming, steady. The foundations ache with it, almost as though enchantments were built into the very walls_.”

“They're blocking me,” Caroline continued while Harry's head spun around everything Caroline was finally making plain. “I'm not entirely certain who it is – whether they are hired help or someone actually within Prince Zayn's inner circle. It's possible the Prince doesn't even know that magic is being used around him and for his benefit. But whoever they are, they are stronger than me, and they have been able to block me from a fair degree of snooping.”

“When Nick returned we had a meeting to discuss what happened to my mother in Holmes,” Harry said, licking his lips. “There was a moment where I was able to see everything Nick was saying. As though I was there myself, watching over his shoulder.”

Caroline narrowed her eyes contemplatively before shaking her head. “That was not me. I know I have projected images to you before, but I'm not capable of such sustained magic. Who else was in the room?”

Harry shrugged, tugging at his hair. “Obviously myself and the Prince. Nick. Matty. Liam and Niall. The King and some of his men. Louis.” Caroline sat straighter, bending her legs out and humming to herself, her eyes darting around the room as she frowned. “You don't think it's Louis, do you?” Harry gulped. “I know you think he is up to something.”

“If he had that level of controlled magical ability at his disposal he would be King by now,” Caroline answered, although from her tone of voice, Harry deduced that she was not entirely convinced by her own words. “So, no. I do not.”

Quietude fell between Harry and Caroline again, the silence heavy but not oppressive. Harry was certain they both looked like children – Harry swinging his legs over the side of the canopy bed, Caroline sitting on the floor, back against the wall and her dress pushed up to her knees.

“Caroline, what am I going to _do_?” Harry asked. “I just – I feel so lost. Angry and sad and _lost_.”

“The grief will one day become bearable,” Caroline sighed. “But beyond that, I do not know what to tell you, Harry. I just want you to be happy. That's all I ever want.”

Harry closed his eyes and when he opened them Caroline was a tabby once more, settling in Harry's lap with a purr. Harry scratched behind her ears and hummed an old lullaby to himself, only stirring when Zayn returned with pears for them to eat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the good news is that you finished this chapter - yay! The bad news is that I'm going to take a few weeks off from this fic. I need to work on my Big Bang and a few other projects, and I don't want to bullshit my way through fics anymore (take a guess at which of my earlier stories that's a jab at), so the next update of Chase the Devil probably won't be until mid-November. I hope you all understand, and just know that this fic is totally my baby and I am NOT abandoning it.
> 
> Love you all lots and lots!


	9. Part Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time since they had met, Harry felt truly uncomfortable in Zayn's presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. I clearly have a fucked up understanding of what "mid-November" means.
> 
> Continued and eternal thanks to all of my betas for doing such an all-star job on this chapter.

Harry awoke slowly, blinking at the last remnants of druggy sleepiness. Light was already streaming full through the windows, and it was brisk, the first real hints of winter finally revealing itself in the cold air traveling through the bedroom. At some point in the middle of the night, Harry and Zayn had become intimately intertwined, arms and legs wrapped all around each other. Zayn's breath was coming out in hot puffs against Harry's collarbone and for a few moments Harry let himself bask in the warmth of Zayn's body, collapsing against Zayn with desperate fingers, and allowing himself the luxury of forgetting everything that had been troubling him.

Harry refused to let himself think about everything Caroline had said the night before. He couldn't, not now. Not when Zayn was warm against his side, skin soft and so familiar.

Harry wasn't sure how long he lied there awake, cocooned against Zayn's side and purposefully not thinking. Harry jumped minutely when he heard rustling, Zayn kicking his legs against the mattress and inhaling long and slow. Watching Zayn rouse from consciousness was actually quite fascinating, an indulgence that Harry did not let himself partake in quite frequently. Zayn's honeyed face, the way his pink tongue darted out to lick over his lips before they parted in a yawn. Long, dusky eyelashes that fluttered, flickering like a candle, before creaking apart to reveal the familiar hazel of his eyes. And then a smile, a blinding grin that almost tricked Harry into believing he was the only person who mattered in the world.

“Morning,” Zayn croaked, his fingers ghosting over the flesh stubbornly collected around Harry's hips before digging in and somehow pulling Harry even closer. Zayn smelled like the pears he had been eating before they collapsed into bed the night before, and the seam of his lips was still sticky when Harry darted forward to press his mouth against Zayn's.

Harry would hate himself for thinking it, later, but he knew that sex was the perfect distraction, the best way to get his mind away from troubling thoughts. And Zayn was pliable, easiness in the morning, a warm body to cling to while cool air whipped through the bedroom. Harry licked his way from mouth to neck and further downward, wrapping his lips around Zayn's cock with practiced ease and flicking wicked eyes up to catch the sweetly agonized expression straining Zayn's face. Harry relaxed into it with an eager throat and skillful fingers, and lost himself in the thrum of Zayn's pulse as it thudded against Harry's tongue.

  


Harry was twelve years old when Gemma was married to her betrothed. The official wedding announcement came only a few weeks after Harry had to give away his beloved horse, Lola. For a twelve-year-old, the compounding events spelled an exceedingly trying time in his life. Up until that point, Harry could pretend as though the war was something distant, far removed. And to a certain extent, it had been. Something that people whispered about until he entered a room, but not a reality that inconvenienced him or influenced his life directly. But knowing that the war had escalated to a point where his horse had to be donated to the effort and his sister was being married off for her own safety brought the conflict to the forefront of Harry's mind in a way that it had never been before, hammered home the horrific reality that the war did impact his life – the atrocities were no longer simmering in the background.

Gemma's betrothed was a Prince from a storied kingdom to the south. Harry was only in his presence once or twice, but he remembered that the man was tall with blonde hair and a roguish smile. Harry also remembered that he was _old_ , somewhere around forty years of age. Old enough to be Gemma and Harry's father. It made something sour rise up in Harry's throat at the time, watching the way the Prince ran thick, sausage-like fingers over Gemma's slim wrists, grinning toadishly as he murmured that Gemma was more than he had ever dreamed of.

The night after that first dinner, the one in which Gemma continued to smile waspishly at her betrothed, hiding behind charm and her long, brown hair, Queen Anne called Harry to her private quarters. Harry remembered being led down long, dark hallways with Lady Cole at his side, all the while bristling over the fact that he was twelve and _still_ required a nanny. It was a testament to how much Gemma's betrothed had unsettled him that his mind actually flashed over the alternative – being twelve and married off to a toad of a man.

Harry did not spend a good deal of time with his mother one-on-one as a young boy. There were always servants and Ladies around, women who cooed over Harry's curls and begged for the opportunity to read him a story, jostling amongst themselves in order to show the young King-to-be a fleeting moment of affection in the off-chance he might remember their generosity years later. But this night, as the castle groaned and a storm raged outside, Harry found himself alone with his mother. The memory was faded, now, but Harry could remember the warmth radiating from the fireplace and the soothing pitter-patter of raindrops against the Queen's windows. Harry curled up against his mother's bosom and let her soft hums put him at ease, for once eager to let himself be taken care of like the young one he was.

“You do not like Gemma's betrothed, do you?” Queen Anne murmured, brushing strands of hair from Harry's face.

Harry shook his head, jutting his lips petulantly. “He is ugly,” Harry said. “Ugly and old. I don't like the way he touches her.”

The Queen continued to hum. It was an old song, the same hymn they had played earlier during Gemma's wedding ceremony. Harry could not understand the words, but he had been told that it contained a blessing, prayers of goodwill and protection.

“Neither do I,” Queen Anne admitted after several long moments. “I would much prefer that my daughter could choose to marry a charming young man who looked at her as if she hung the moon, but I have long accepted that my wishes can not always come to fruition. And that is the burden all of us must bear in this world.”

Harry frowned and turned his head up to regard his mother inquisitively. “What do you mean?”

“We all have had our futures planned for us from the moment of our births,” Queen Anne answered delicately. “This existence of ours – the luxury of a title – there's only a thin veneer of privilege and choice. You know that.”

Harry's frown deepened and turned into a scowl. “But that's not fair.”

Harry had always known this distantly – that while he was able to terrorize Lady Cole and demand extra helpings of food during his meals, there were still a lot of things he couldn't do. He could not spend hours upon hours running around outside like Niall was able to – Harry was always scolded after a few minutes and told to come back inside to continue his studies, reprimanded because future Kings did not play in the dirt all day. He was not allowed to play with dolls like Gemma could, was instead sat before a chess board and told to learn how to think strategically. Sometimes it seemed like there was a whole world of fun and adventure that he could not explore and Harry wanted to cry with frustration, but he knew such an outburst would make him look petty and childish. Already at twelve years of age, Harry knew that he must behave more like a man, more like a future King, whatever that even meant.

And Harry also knew that the throne ran through his mother and that Gemma was the one who _should_ be ruler when they both grew up. But everyone at court had always treated Harry like the mini-King, the next in line, completely ignoring Gemma more often than not even though she was wickedly smart, far more clever than Harry could ever hope to be.

“It's not,” Queen Anne acknowledged. “But life is not about what is fair and just. And the sooner you realize this and learn how to play the game, the better.”

“But I'm not a girl – not like you, like Gemma. It's different for me, right? Because I'm a boy?”

Queen Anne clucked her tongue and twisted a strand of hair behind Harry's ear, pulling him full into her lap so she could smile at him softly but sadly. “My dear, sweet Harry,” the Queen cooed. “ _Nothing_ will be different for you. You think that you are immune from treachery? I can promise you that someday another man will try to manipulate you and you will have to know how to resist being a pawn. You will have to chart your own course – using the hand and the tools that you are dealt, of course. And _that_ , my love, is how you will show your true worth.”

  


Harry never really thought of himself as unobservant, quite the contrary, actually, but Harry couldn't help but think that Caroline was right. In her own backhanded, insulting way, of course. Harry had been living in a fantasy world, not asking questions, not prying, taking the world as it was presented to him superficially. He had not asked Zayn why it was they had not slept together until the issue became a legitimate strain on their relationship. Harry never bothered asking Zayn why he was in so many meetings all of the time – Zayn volunteered the news of his upcoming coronation willingly, but again at a point where it was more convenient to be honest than to continue to hold information too close to the vest. And Harry still had no clue what Zayn and Matty's foreign affair meetings were about more often than not, could not help but wonder if matters of state were the only things they were discussing during those long, closed off interactions. Harry had been a passive participant in his own life, and he truly had no one to blame for that but himself. He could not help but think that his mother would be so disappointed.

Harry knew that part of the reason for his purposeful ignorance was because he was afraid. There were clear and obvious power imbalances built into Harry's relationship with Zayn. Harry was the one sent abroad, the one who had to learn an entirely new language and cultivate countless new relationships at a once-hostile court. Harry was very grateful that Zayn had not been anything but sweet and thoughtful throughout the experience, but the more Harry thought about it, the more Harry realized that Zayn had not exactly given Harry a lot of reasons to trust him.

Zayn had certainly worked hard to make sure Harry was comfortable, complacent, even. But frankly, their relationship was hardly anything more complex than the type shared between a man and his mistress. They had good conversations, but not the sort that ended in deep secrets muttered underneath moonlight, and now that they were intimate, every encounter of theirs ended with Harry on his knees or on his back. Harry still felt as though he hardly knew Zayn, would even say that he had a better grasp on, say, Taylor's personality than Zayn's. Harry loved Zayn, in the sort of blinding, uncomplicated way he had always hoped to love someone, but after his conversation with Caroline, Harry had deep-seated doubts that Zayn felt the same way.

Because if Zayn had even the _slightest_ inkling that something had happened to Harry's mother, how could he keep that information away from Harry and still say he treasured Harry?

Zayn was hiding something. Maybe a lot of things. And Harry knew that he had to find out what they were.

Harry refused to let himself be manipulated. His mother had raised him better than that.

  


Harry could feel himself withdrawing from Zayn over the next few days. It was not a clear, intentional decision, but Harry did not stop himself nonetheless. Harry's mind was in a veritable state of disarray and without the advice of his friends, he was unsure how to best approach the game that he now realized he had been losing. Harry still sought solace and momentary reprieves in Zayn's caress and the fullness of his cock, in the hours and hours they spent fucking each other every day, but after they both came, lying shoulder-to-shoulder, sweaty and spent, Harry always retreated. If not always physically, excusing himself to grab something to eat or take a bath, then emotionally, rolling over across their mattress and begging for sleep to take him.

Harry felt like a coward, like the worst kind of husband, flinching away when Zayn tried to bring his hands to dip against Harry's skin. Zayn didn't ask what was wrong or what had changed – perhaps he even assumed that Harry's distance was simply a result of his grief. But there was still something deeply satisfying in knowing that Harry was confusing Zayn just as much as Zayn had always baffled him.

  


Zayn and Harry finally decided to return to court after three full weeks in the mountains, staying long enough to watch the first real storm arrive from the north. Harry watched the snow fall past the window in thick, fluffy bursts and swirls of white-gray, buried underneath mounds of blankets while Zayn read over reports from the capital beside him. It was the closest to domesticity Harry had ever experienced, but Zayn always shuffled his papers whenever Harry hooked his chin over Zayn's shoulder in order to sneak a glance.

The carriage that arrived to take them downhill to Jinan was sturdier than any of the others Harry had rode in, more akin to the form of transport he had traveled in back in Holmes, and there were warm fur-lined blankets waiting for him and Zayn once they climbed inside. The air was biting and cool nonetheless, brisk wind sneaking into the carriage as they made their way back to the capital. Harry snuggled against Zayn's side, drifting into sleep to the sound of Zayn's heartbeat.

  


Harry awoke again when the carriage ground to a sudden stop. Harry was startled by the sudden lack of motion underneath his feet and pushed himself up, wiping saliva from his cheek as he stirred. He peered up at Zayn through bleary eyes, taking an unseemly long time to realize what was even happening. Zayn was leaned forward, talking to Kevin through a flap in the carriage awning, his words coming in a rapid-fire burst of consonants that Harry had difficulty understanding. It was markedly warmer so Harry felt safe in assuming that they were no longer in the mountains, but Harry was still confused as to why they were stopped, knowing by the height of the sun that they were still several hours from Jinan.

“Love?” Harry asked, poking at Zayn's rib. Zayn twisted and turned toward Harry, a blinding smile already firmly in place.

“I asked Kevin to take a slight detour,” Zayn explained, brushing an errant strand of hair out of Harry's eyes. “I hope you don't mind.”

Harry shook his head, mumbled, “No, of course not,” and hummed against Zayn's lips when Zayn leaned forward to kiss him. Zayn pulled away with a smirk and Harry felt that familiar crushing feeling that always seemed to settle in his stomach whenever he remembered how beautiful Zayn was.

Kevin pulled the carriage doors open and helped Zayn and Harry out. The carriage was sat in the middle of a tiny dirt path, one that Harry assumed was typically used only by human feet, horses, or mules, not at all equipped for something as large as their carriage. To the right side of the path was a towering decrepit stone building, the type that old warlords used to house their weaponry and supplies. But beyond that, there was nothing else around them but forestry, miles and miles of trees as far as Harry could see. Harry wondered if there was anyone who lived in the region at all, the air disturbingly still save for Kevin's coughs and the distant tweeting of birds.

Harry turned to Zayn with a befuddled look. “Are we paying someone a visit? Is there a village nearby?”

“No,” Zayn said, interlocking his fingers with Harry's and pulling Harry across the footpath and toward the dilapidated stone structure. “We're here because I think you should see something.”

Harry hummed inquisitively but let himself be lead, making note of how Kevin came to stand guard outside of the building with his back turned toward the door. Zayn pulled a giant brass key from a rope Harry hadn't even realized was tied around his waist and fiddled with a gaudy lock barring their entrance.

The door gave way with a long groan and Harry sneezed at the sudden onslaught of dust upon his nostrils. He managed to follow Zayn inside despite his sneezing fit and glanced around, his eyes taking several moments to adjust to the inky darkness once Zayn pushed the door shut behind them. They were in what appeared to be a small antechamber, the room achingly cold, dank, and almost unwelcoming, with old, faded portraits on the wall and small end-tables that were blanketed with spiderwebs and years of grime. Their footsteps resounded against the cracked ground and out of the corner of his eye, Harry watched a rat scamper alongside the length of the wall.

“Zayn – ?” Harry began questioningly but Zayn hushed him, walking through a rounded entryway to their right. Harry bounded forward to grab a hold of Zayn's wrist, squeezing his fingers around Zayn's brittle bones, and then came to an abrupt stop as he took in what was sat before him, his mouth falling open.

Harry wasn't sure what he was expecting when he stepped into this forgotten building that Harry was sure was teeming with rats and which smelled like the bottom of a pond, but the fabled Iron Throne had _not_ been it.

Harry knew the stories. He might not have had an education that Louis Tomlinson respected, but Harry did somehow manage to pick up a few things here and there, had grown up hearing about the War of the Five Kings from his father. But Harry had always been told that the Throne had been destroyed, melted down with dragon fire, deemed too dangerous of a symbol to continue to exist in this world.

And yet here it was. Uglier than anything Harry could have ever imagined, the throne was a metal monstrosity of countless blades that spiraled upward in uneven jagged spikes. Awe-inspiring in its sheer size and hideousness, Harry felt a shudder travel down his spine, his skin erupting in goosebumps.

Harry hated it. Immediately. Rashly, even. He found the chair so repulsive that he wanted to turn and walk back out to the carriage and demand his immediate transport back to the capital. He knew it was silly to think so, but Harry could not help but think this throne was cursed, an abomination forged in metal and caked in blood and gore. It seemed impervious to the passage of time even, gleaming, clean, and mocking despite all of the filth surrounding it.

“Why are you showing me this?” Harry said, dropping Zayn's wrist and wrapping his arms around himself defensively. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Because you deserve to see it,” Zayn replied simply, walking up to the throne and running the palm of his hand over the side, his skin catching on the uneven grooves. “Deserve to know where my family has hidden it.”

Harry gulped, his mind suddenly flashing the unwelcome image of this grotesque creation sitting in the middle of Jinan's beautiful main square. “So this is not a replica? How – I thought it was destroyed centuries ago.”

Zayn lifted a shoulder before turning back to face Harry, cupping Harry's face with the same fingers that were just caressing that godforsaken chair. Harry tried not to flinch underneath the press of his hand, but he was sure that his pout and the flickering of his eyes gave away his discomfort nonetheless. Either way, Zayn did not comment, just held Harry even more desperately, almost as though he could win Harry over just through the pressure of his fingertips.

“You would be surprised what sort of things mercenaries stumble upon in the middle of all of that raiding and pillaging,” Zayn answered wryly, his tongue darting out to lick the seam of his lips. “My grandfather had a close relationship with pirates from the West. They found it in the ocean, not far from the ruins of King's Landing. It cost a small fortune to get it here – and without alerting anyone, on top of that – but he managed the deed. And it has been housed in this structure ever since.”

“But it had been destroyed,” Harry insisted. “That's what my father always said – as a dragon forged it, a dragon destroyed it.”

“Kings only repeat the tales they have been told,” Zayn replied loftily. “And like all men, sometimes they are wrong.”

Harry let his eyes wander to take in the sharp, ragged edges of the throne and turned away as though he were burned by the sight. “ _Why are you showing me this_?” Harry repeated insistently, turning his gaze back toward Zayn.

Harry could not read the hard set that dashed across Zayn's countenance, the cold turn to his normally warm hazel eyes. “The Iron Throne has been sitting here collecting dust ever since the war between our own two kingdoms,” Zayn finally said. “I didn't even know it was here until I stumbled upon it only a few months ago, returning from the mountains with Kevin, Matty, and Louis. Two weeks later, news came that you had accepted the betrothal and would be coming to live with me in Jinan. That has to mean something, doesn't it?”

Harry did not know what to say, felt so overwhelmed by the beseeching look in Zayn's eyes that he just nodded and softly knocked his forehead against Zayn's own. Harry felt Zayn's resulting smile against his cheek, Zayn's happiness radiating off of him as though it were physical, something Harry could touch and feel for himself.

“I just – all of this is fate, I know it in my bones,” Zayn continued. “Having you here with me has been nothing but a blessing. And I know you've been depressed ever since the loss of your mother. I've felt you pulling away. But I do love you, as fiercely as I have ever loved anything, and I want nothing more than to rule beside you. You just have to _trust_ me, as I have trusted you. By bringing you here and showing you all that we have to gain by loving each other.”

By bringing Harry here to gaze upon this cursed construction. Harry felt completely at a loss.

Harry bit at his lip so ferociously that he could taste the copper of his own blood. Everything Zayn had said – they were all words Harry had once dreamed of hearing. But now that Zayn had finally uttered them, Harry felt nothing more than cold tendrils of dread.

Something was _wrong_ here. Zayn was showing Harry this frightful throne for a reason, thought that it would win over Harry's trust. Thought that the sight of the Iron Throne would make Harry more pliable, more willing to follow Zayn to the ends of the world.

Zayn was trying to manipulate Harry. Maybe he always had been. Maybe every choice had been agonized over and selected with one endgame in mind.

Harry suddenly felt so, so very stupid.

“What do you want from me?” Harry asked, squirming out of Zayn's touch. “Why are you working so hard to butter me up?”

Panic flashed quick and hard across Zayn's face before he schooled it into something softer and more hospitable. It was shocking to watch, and Harry felt something like fear trickle through his veins. “What do you mean?”

“You want something out of me,” Harry said, knowing in his soul it was true the moment he said it. “You always have – it is why you have been so accommodating, for months and months. You've wanted my cooperation for some sort of endeavor – whatever it is that you have been planning with Matty. What is it then?”

“I have been accommodating because I want you to be comfortable,” Zayn bristled. “Not because I am trying to trick you into anything.”

“You cannot possibly believe that I am so naïve,” Harry hissed. “I cannot imagine that the months of observation Louis provided said as much.”

“Harry – ”

“ _No_ ,” Harry interrupted. “I refuse to be taken advantage of. I am grieving, I am bereft – all of that is true. But I am not _stupid_ and I am not your plaything. So be plain with me. What is it that you _want_?”

Zayn watched Harry, his gaze cold and measured. Harry felt as though his skin was being steadily torn back, Zayn's scrutiny sharp and lacerating. For the first time since they had met, Harry felt truly uncomfortable in Zayn's presence.

“I do not know what has gotten into your head,” Zayn finally settled upon. “Nor do I know who has corrupted your view of me. But I promise you, I am not trying to beguile you or influence you in any way.”

“Ah yes, and that completely explains why you brought me to stare upon this ghastly deformity,” Harry sneered, gesturing at the Iron Throne where it was looming menacingly before them. “Because it is so pleasant to gaze upon and not because you are trying to manipulate me.”

“Is it really beyond belief that I brought you here because I thought you would be impressed by what my grandfather managed to do?”

“No,” Harry replied. “But this throne is a symbol of war. And we have both lived under the crushing weight of our forefather's strife our entire lives, so I cannot imagine why you would think I would ever want to see something so frightful. I cannot imagine why _you_ would even be interested in gazing upon this eyesore.”

Zayn turned away and chewed at his bottom lip. His next handful of words were whispered. “The only reason you're here with me is because of war.”

Harry quirked an eyebrow. “I am aware.”

“Would you rather you weren't?” Zayn asked. “Would you rather that you were still in Holmes?”

Harry felt Zayn's words as though he had been struck. Considering everything that had happened to Harry's mother, all of the uncertainty as to what was even going on in his homeland now that the King was dead – Zayn had to know the effect his muttering would have. His words were insensitive at the very least, but Harry had never known Zayn to be accidentally callous. He said those words for a reason, because he knew they would hurt Harry.

“I want to go back to Jinan,” Harry said, clutching at himself even more anxiously. He turned towards the doorway, sneering upon the Iron Throne, glimmering and powerful. Harry felt as sure as ever that it was unholy, its mere presence enough to cause this sort of rift between Zayn and Harry. “I don't ever want to see this _thing_ again.”

“Harry, love – ”

“I _don't_ ,” Harry reiterated and he turned and made his way back to the carriage, staring at the flap in the awning and stubbornly ignoring Zayn the entire ride back to Jinan.

  


They arrived close to nightfall and Jinan's clean streets were already lit with lanterns. Harry pulled back some of the covering on the carriage to smile and wave at city folk as they wound their way back to the palace, slipping into the comfortable mask of a royal with practiced ease. Soldiers opened the palace gates before sinking into a bow and Harry let his smile fall for just a moment, wondering vaguely how much longer he could pretend as though his mind was not racked with insecurities and worries.

Kevin helped Harry and Zayn out of the carriage, squeezing Harry's shoulder reassuringly before turning to another pair of soldiers that were helping to take Harry and Zayn's things back up to their respective rooms. Zayn grabbed Harry's hand and opened his mouth as though he wanted to say something, but Harry shrugged out of his grip and made his way inside, pulling his robe tighter around his middle and tossing the hood up in the hopes that nobody would disturb him.

There were a fair number of noblemen loitering about the antechamber – Harry presumed that news of his and Zayn's arrival had already traveled amongst those waiting for a moment of the young princes' time. Harry was not in the mood to humor anyone, desperately wanted to sleep in his own bed tonight, but he caught his name uttered in an accent he had not heard in weeks.

“Nick?” Harry called, turning around towards the sound. And there Nick was, lounging against the entryway to the expansive banquet hall. Nick pushed himself away from the wall and made his way over to Harry in a few quick strides, immediately pulling Harry against him in a crushing hug.

“ _Harry_ ,” Nick breathed, bringing his arms to squeeze around Harry's middle. Harry breathed him in, the familiar scent of smoke that seemed to cling to his skin no matter where Nick was or what he was doing. Harry relaxed against Nick's chest, realizing that this was the first time they had truly run into each other since Nick arrived in Jinan. Harry had been so confused and wracked with grief he had not even had the energy to seek Nick out and see how he was doing.

Nick did appear better – healthier. Not quite as gaunt, and the gleam of playfulness was slowly making its way back into his eyes. He was also dressed in the now familiar clothes of Zayn's countrymen, no longer wearing the thick but threadbare robes he had arrived in.

“You are certainly a sight for sore eyes,” Nick said familiarly, tucking a stubborn strand of hair behind Harry's ears. “Shall we take a quick walk about the grounds? We desperately need to catch up.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but from somewhere off to Harry's side, Harry could hear Zayn cough quietly but pointedly. Both Harry and Nick snapped their heads to meet Zayn's eyes, and Zayn was looking at Nick in a way that made Harry feel uneasy, the expression on Zayn's face only a step below an outright glare. Harry belligerently thought that perhaps Zayn was jealous, but Harry could not understand why. It was only Nick.

“I hope that you can join me in my chambers tonight, Harry,” Zayn murmured. “I must admit that I have become accustomed to your company in the early hours.”

“Of course, Your Highness. I will be there,” Harry answered, a blush coloring his cheeks at the low tone of Zayn's voice. Harry stubbornly avoided the curious look Nick was sending his way and instead smiled at Zayn, as blindingly as he could manage considering all of the events of the past few hours. Harry could not help but think that he was an actor in a play, he and Zayn both having long gone off script.

Zayn nodded, smirking small and self-satisfied, and leaned in, kissing Harry full on the mouth and lingering just long enough that Harry was sure Zayn was doing it to prove a point. He then turned and walked away without a backwards glance, not even sparing a word to Nick. With his robes swishing behind him, Harry thought Zayn looked more like a royal than he ever had before.

“That was odd,” Nick remarked, quirking an eyebrow as he watched Zayn make his way up to his own rooms.

“Yes,” Harry exhaled. “I – there really is quite a lot to tell you. Do you still want to take that walk?”

  


Even with the arrival of dusk, it was still overcast and hazy, more humid than Harry was accustomed to. Harry hardly needed the traveling robe he was still wearing, but Harry did not want to make the journey up to his own rooms lest he run into someone he was not emotionally prepared to see – did not want to encounter Matty or Taylor, certainly did not want to chance seeing Louis or Zayn. Harry needed this moment, lazily strolling about the gardens with Nick while Kevin trailed them at a respectable distance.

Harry and Nick were quiet for several long minutes, the only sound being the crunch of their boots against pebbles and grass. Zayn's sister Safaa was also out on the grounds, racing about with two other young girls Harry had seen around at court while a nanny supervised and fanned herself lazily. Safaa's long, dark hair whipped through the air as she pumped her tiny legs to and fro, and for a hasty moment Harry could feel his heart pang with the desire to have his own child, to watch his own young one play about these castle grounds. It was so sudden and so sharp of a thought that Harry did not even know what to do with the urge, could only push it down, bury it deep for later analysis.

When Nick finally spoke, it was after they had taken a seat on a neglected bench in the middle of the garden maze. Kevin was keeping watch far enough away that he could not possibly overhear and Harry gave himself a moment to let his guard down, releasing a breath he had been holding in ever since he stepped across a tiny footpath and stumbled across the most terrifying object he had ever seen.

“Does he know?” Nick asked urgently, his voice soft but clear. “The Prince, I mean. Does he – ?”

“About us?” Harry clarified, turning his head to regard Nick impassively. Nick looked nervous, biting down on his lip in a way that had to have been painful. Harry broke his gaze and instead stared at a hedge several meters away. “No.”

“Is it because you think he would throw me out of court if he did?”

Harry scoffed. “I fail to see how a few fumbled kisses would be enough of a reason at this point to throw you out. You've sought and received sanctuary. You're safe.”

“You fail to see how our history could be a problem?” Nick asked wryly. “Wouldn't you do the same, if you were in his shoes? If someone – his former betrothed, say – came stumbling back to court? You wouldn't throw them out?”

“You're being unreasonable,” Harry muttered. “You weren't my betrothed – it's not the same thing. Nothing happened between us.”

“He looked at me as though I was dog shit on the bottom of his boot,” Nick said. “And that was just because I had the audacity to hug you.”

“He's my husband, Nick, of course he doesn't like seeing other men touch me. So just leave it. There's really nothing to worry about.”

Harry watched the working of Nick's jaw out of the corner of his eye. “You never answered my question,” Nick said suddenly. “When I first came to Jinan. I asked if the Prince was good to you. You just replied that you loved him. That's not an answer.”

“Of course he's good to me,” Harry seethed, poking at a bit of grass with the toe of his boot. “Just as I love him. That was a sufficient answer.”

“Who are you trying to convince?” Nick challenged. “Me or yourself?”

“Don't – ”

“I _know_ you, Harry,” Nick said. “I've known you since you were a boy who would trail after me at court. I just want what's best for you. If the Prince is not living up to his side of the agreement, there is no reason for you to be at court. Liam and Niall told me that you have property on the beach. You can run away and no one would fault you.”

“I'm not dissatisfied with my marriage.”

Nick crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that why you nearly squirmed out of his grip when he came to kiss you?”

Harry turned away and scratched at the back of his neck where he could already feel redness spreading from his embarrassment. When Harry opened his mouth again, it was to laugh, the noise short, bitter, and ugly. “You don't understand.”

“Then explain it to me.”

Harry took a deep breath before turning bodily towards Nick, squeezing his eyes shut before nodding and letting his gaze lock with Nick's. “Everything I say must be kept in absolute confidence.”

Nick nodded. “Of course.”

“You cannot even tell Aimee,” Harry said. “You cannot tell _anyone_.”

Nick's face fell but he nodded, reaching up to squeeze Harry's shoulder. “You know that you can trust me.”

“We stopped on our way down from the mountains,” Harry said, plucking at a string hanging from his robe. “Zayn said he wanted to show me something, so he took me to this empty old building. It looked like the sort of small castle my father used to store supplies in during the war. I think I was expecting weapons, but. I don't know. But what was in there was the Iron Throne.”

Nick's eyes widened before his mouth fell open in a wide circle. “But I thought – ?”

“I did as well,” Harry breathed. “But it was there. And it was certainly not a replica. It had an aura, Nick. The air felt heavy, dirty. I felt tainted even gazing upon it.” Harry exhaled once more, shaking his hair out. “I think he thought it would impress me.”

“Well, the idea that he has it _is_ impressive,” Nick remarked, kicking his legs out and screwing his face up in thought. “How come – if that's just something they have lying around, can you imagine what other wonders his family has stashed away over the years? King Yaser's ties to the mercenaries have always been legendary. The royal family must have whole hosts of things hidden about the kingdom.”

“It makes me wonder why they were even bothering fighting that petty war with us,” Harry replied. “I know they must have terrifying weapons stashed about – they could have exterminated us at any moment.” Harry stopped the moment he said it, turning to Nick with wide, terrified eyes. “Wait – they do. Louis showed me.”

“The fellow with the awful hair?” Nick clarified. “What did he show you?”

Harry bit his lip and shook his head, suddenly remembering the weight of those unhatched dragon eggs. The power that seemed to radiate from them. “I – I don't think I can say.”

Nick watched Harry quietly before scoffing. “They're trying to scare you into going along with something, you must realize.”

“No. I know. That's what I told Zayn – that I did not want to be used. That I would rather he just told me what he wanted out of me.”

“I think I know what it is.”

Harry tilted his head to watch Nick, who smiled blithely. “The whole war – who cares why it was started. The reason it continued was because of an obsession with land and power, right? And in order to end the war, King Yaser and your stepfather agreed to form a bond of love, one that was supposed to trump those desires. But what if that's not what Prince Zayn wants? What if he still wants your land?”

Harry blinked at Nick. “How – what do you mean?”

“Just think about it, Harry,” Nick insisted. “Just think about everything the Prince has been showing you. Hell, think about how things have changed since I came here with the news of your mother.”

“Nothing's changed.”

“Really?” Nick pressed. “Absolutely _nothing_ has changed? Things are still rosy and perfect? Which is why you look like you want nothing more than to dash back to Holmes right now?”

Harry squirmed in his seat and rubbed his palms into his eyes, scolding himself and reminding himself that he was not a child anymore. He could not cry. “You can't just – he's my _husband_ , Nick. I love him and his protection and patronage is the only reason I'm still alive right now.”

Nick pulled Harry's hands away from his face and silently commanded Harry to meet his eyes. “That's not true,” Nick whispered fiercely. “You are alive because you are far stronger than you give yourself credit for and because your mother loved you enough to send you away before everything went to shit. So don't you dare lay down and turn away from whatever it is the Prince and his men are planning.”

Harry wheezed shakily, nodding his head before leaning into the crook of Nick's shoulder, squeezing against the water threatening to spill onto Nick's skin.

“I'll keep an eye out for you, love,” Nick said soothingly, rubbing his hand against Harry's shaking back. “And you need to pay attention to all of the signs around you.”  
  


It was another few hours before Harry made the journey up to Zayn's quarters, nodding at the soldier who was watching guard before he was let in. Harry was unsurprised to see that Zayn and Matty were both inside, a map spread out over the table between them. Matty rolled the map up with a warm smile, bowing at Harry in greeting. “You are looking far more rosy-cheeked, Your Highness,” Matty said. “I take it the mountainous air reinvigorated you.”

“It did, thank you, Matty,” Harry replied in greeting, making a straight line towards the bed and pulling off his boots with a groan. Matty smiled at Harry before clapping his hand on Zayn's shoulder and letting himself out, the map held firmly underneath his arm.

“I did not see you at dinner,” Zayn said, removing his clothes and discarding them on the back of one of his chairs. “I was wondering whether you were still cross with me.”

“I was,” Harry acknowledged. “I held my dinner with Nick in the gardens.”

Zayn hummed but something flashed across his face again, hot and unwelcome, before he schooled his countenance into something that was far more difficult to read. Zayn lowered himself onto the bed and laid next to Harry, wrapping a lock of hair around his finger.

“Matty tells me that Nick has already made many friends at court,” Zayn said conversationally. “All of the Ladies say that he and that friend of his – Aimee – have a fantastic sense of humor.”

“I am glad.”

“I am sure you are,” Zayn continued, throwing his legs across Harry's hips and bracing himself over Harry, helping Harry shuck out of his shirt before throwing it somewhere on the floor. “Particularly considering all that he means to you.”

Harry blinked. “I want all of my friends to be comfortable at court.”

“And that is all he is to you? A friend?”

Harry gaped at Zayn. “Am I not allowed the indulgence of friendship anymore?”

“You know what I am asking you, Harry.”

“We never fucked,” Harry snarled. “And if you wanted an honest response, you could have just asked me outright.”

Zayn nodded but the unreadable expression remained firmly affixed to his face. “So, you didn't sleep with him. Did you want to?”

“What is your _problem_?” Harry demanded.

“What is yours?”

“I have a husband who doesn't trust me and thinks I am bedding every man at court,” Harry hissed, pushing up against Zayn and rolling them over so that he was on top. Harry found that he rather liked the view, relishing in the flush that had settled across Zayn's face and chest. “I also have a husband who refuses to tell me anything unless it's a trick to get me to be quiet.”

“Believe me, Harry, I have far better tricks to get you to be quiet,” Zayn said, bucking his hip against Harry so that Harry could feel the hot length of his cock.

“Is that all I am?” Harry sneered, quirking an eyebrow up at Zayn. “Someone to suck you on occasion?”

Zayn pulled a face. “Don't be silly, Harry.”

“Then don't be dismissive,” Harry replied. “It's a legitimate question.”

“I told you today that I love you and am eagerly awaiting the day we can rule together,” Zayn answered softly. “What do I have to do to prove all of that is true?”

Harry threw himself back against the bed, laying shoulder-to-shoulder with Zayn and running his hands through his hair nervously. Zayn curled up against his side, throwing his arm across the width of Harry's chest and running his fingers over Harry's collarbone. He was warm and cuddly and hard even despite all of the strange things they had said to each other today, soft where their words had been cutting.

“You have to understand that all of this feels like a lot on my end,” Harry whispered. “I have you on one hand, telling me one thing, and then there are rumors and observations that I don't know how to process on the other.”

“Then trust me,” Zayn plead. “I have nothing but your best interests at heart.”

“If your interests include dragging that cursed throne out to Jinan – ”

“Harry,” Zayn interrupted. “Everything I have been working on has been for you. For your honor and for your safety and security. You _have_ to see that.”

“I don't see anything,” Harry protested. “All I know is that I am terrified and tired of war and you showed me a throne that was forged in it, a throne that should have been destroyed centuries ago. I'm afraid of what that means.”

“You think that I'm preparing to go to war,” Zayn said, pulling away and squinting down at Harry. “You think that's what the throne means – what the meetings with Matty mean.”

Harry shook his head helplessly. “What else am I supposed to think, Zayn?”

“I'm not a war king,” Zayn replied. “You see what type of man I am. I'm bookish and I enjoy reading about history, but I'm not power hungry. I've already got all the land and riches a lesser man would die for. And I have you. What else could I possibly _need_?”

Zayn's tone was genuine and his hazel eyes were beseeching. Harry almost believed him. But he also knew that men were always searching for more, were never truly content. Harry knew this from his own drive, his own desires. Even earlier, sitting in the garden with Nick and grateful for a moment of quietude and peace, his mind flashed with a new urge, a novel goal to sift through and work towards.

But Harry was tired of fighting. Tired of shirking away from Zayn's touch and tired of pretending as though he wasn't playing the game now, too. So Harry nodded, leaning in and kissing the frown off of Zayn's face. It was easy, using his body like a chess piece, and it felt a little bit like winning when Zayn opened him up with fingers coated in oil, pressing into Harry with his cock, and whispering lies into Harry's ear.

  


The next morning, Harry got up early and went back to his own rooms before Zayn even woke. Harry canceled a morning meeting with Waliyha and instead invited Niall, Nick, and Liam into his quarters for breakfast. They all arrived as the sun made its upward trek, Niall wiping sleep from his eyes as he settled onto the chaise in Harry's room.

It was strange seeing all of them in one space again, made the lines between past and future blur momentarily in Harry's mind. Harry could not help but remember all of the revelry they had once indulged in at his mother's court, hours and hours of parties and banquets. It was almost obscene how much they indulged considering the bankruptcy of the royal treasury and the poverty of the masses. But Harry did not know any better and they were losing the war anyway. Harry supposed the general sentiment was that it would be preferable to die drunk than anything else.

And yet here they were now. All of them thankfully alive and more comfortable and wealthier than they had ever imagined, living in peaceful decadence, yet Harry could not help but wonder if perhaps they were happier back then, when they were poor and drunk.

Servants brought in food from the kitchens, breads and pastries, fruits and chocolate. His countrymen let Harry fix his plate first and instead of sitting at his small table, Harry took his food over to the alcove by the window, picking at the offerings as he looked outside at the gardens. Harry's heart momentarily stopped when he made out Zayn and Louis' familiar figures, the two of them both dressed as though they were about to embark on a morning horse ride. Their heads were bent together, a mixture of brown and black hair. For not the first time, Harry marveled over the reality that they were brothers.

Harry also wondered if they were talking about him.

“Did you have a good trip in the mountains?” Niall asked, his mouth stuffed with food. “Was it the reprieve you needed from court?”

“It was nice, yes,” Harry said. “I received a fair amount of sleep and it was good to spend time alone with Prince Zayn.”

Nick clucked his tongue but thankfully did not say anything. Niall and Liam both arched their own eyebrows, but only Liam found the courage to speak. “Are you sure everything is all right, Harry? Rumors are already spreading through court that you and Zayn had a row.”

Harry would forever be amazed by the rapidity with which gossip traveled. “We did not have a row – ”

“Then what would you call it?” Nick interrupted.

“Not a row,” Harry said. “We're not fighting. We quashed our differences last night. Things are fine.”

Nick gnashed his teeth but Harry chose to ignore him, instead sighing heavily, his eyes drifting to watch the scenery outside of the window once more. Harry wondered if it ever got cold enough in the capital to snow. He doubted it and then immediately pushed the thought away, unwelcome images of sitting up in the mountains with Zayn and feeling the gaping mistrust grow between the two of them suddenly assaulting his brain. Maybe one day Harry would know how to talk to Zayn without feeling like an awkward, stumbling child. Harry could only hope.

“Do you all remember that story from the Knight-Errant's tale?” Harry asked suddenly. “The one about Tessa?”

“Of course,” Liam answered as he popped a slice of fruit into his mouth. “You always used to say Tessa was your favorite.”

“Did you ever read the story of how she died?”

Liam's frown deepened as he tapped his pointer finger against his chin. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry watched Niall and Nick exchange baffled expressions. “No? I – I'm not sure, actually. I did not read all of the adventures – my father did not have all of the books. But I don't think so.”

Harry turned to Niall and Nick, both of whom shook their heads as well. “She returned to her homeland and attempted to live a quiet life. Married a Prince, even. But then the members of her husband's court killed her. Set her on fire. I was fourteen when I stumbled upon this volume and I remember wondering how something so awful could happen to Tessa. She was a _hero_ and they killed her in her own bed – callously discarded her like she was waste. The Knight-Errant wasn't even aware of the tragedy – could not do anything to save her.” Harry scratched at his arm, the sharp tear of his fingernails against skin a grounding jolt of pain. “I've always thought her death was so pointless – needless. That it could have been easily prevented.”

“Like with your mother?” Niall asked hesitantly. “Is that what all of this is about? Queen Anne?”

“No,” Harry gulped. “I – I don't know what I could have done to have prevented my mother's death. If I had been there, they would have just killed me, too, and Holmes would be entirely without an heir. I realize that – rationally I _know_ that. But I have been thinking a fair amount about Tessa. Her story and my fixation with it – I know that is saying something about _me_.”

Nick crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Harry, his gaze penetrating. “I'm not following, Harry. What is all of this about?”

“I am afraid, Nick,” Harry admitted, voice constrained to a whisper. “Terribly so. The Prince says a lot of things, very nice, comforting things, and often when I gaze into his eyes I genuinely believe he cares about me. But I also cannot help but think that a good deal of it may have been an act. You were right during our walk about the grounds. I – I have to be more observant and I have to provide for my own safety. There is no army at home that can be called upon if something were to happen to me now, and nothing about my life here is guaranteed or ensured.”

Liam frowned. “Are you saying that you think – ?”

“I'm not saying anything,” Harry interrupted. “I simply want to secure my position at court. That is the only thing I am sure of. I no longer have the luxury of going back home should things go wrong and I would not dare burden Gemma and her husband.”

“You're afraid that Prince Zayn would throw you out,” Niall hissed, blue eyes wide as saucers. “You know he would never – ”

“Niall,” Harry plead. “ _I don't know anything_. I never would have foreseen what happened to my mother, and look at what became of her fate. I just – I know that I sound as though I have been stricken by paranoia, but you have to understand. I have to take care of myself first and foremost. ”

All three of Harry's countrymen fell silent and Harry could pinpoint the exact moment each of them realized Harry was right. Niall nodded, a look of resolve tightening his face. Nick gulped and straightened in his seat, eyes darting around the room as he assembled his thoughts. And Liam – his eyes widened, same as Niall's had earlier, and he sighed before running shaking fingers over his beard.

“What are you thinking to do, Harry?” Nick asked, tone sad and resigned. “We all know that the Prince holds all of the power in this relationship. And I can't help but think that was an intentional decision on his part. Perhaps even something your parents agreed upon before you were sent here.”

“I've been mulling the thought over,” Harry admitted, finally taking a seat at the table with the rest of the boys. “One of my thoughts is that I can even out the power balance if I provide us with an heir. If I find us a boy, I – I think I will be all right. I always thought that was Tessa's mistake in the Knight Errant's tale. The fact that she did not start a family. They cannot easily dispose of you if you bring them an heir.”

Niall screwed his face up as he blinked at Harry. “They won't be expecting for you and Zayn to start looking for a surrogate or a son to adopt for years, _at least_. Zayn hasn't even been crowned King yet.”

“How does providing an heir work in this country anyway?” Liam asked, turning around in his chair to survey everyone else's expressions. “I mean – is it some sort of involved process?”

“I'm not entirely sure,” Harry answered honestly. “But I saw Safaa playing on the grounds yesterday and I just knew.”

“Children aren't playthings or accessories,” Niall protested while Nick scoffed.

“Of course they are,” Nick said. “You think Harry isn't the first royal to think about how having a child will improve favor at court?”

“And that's what we want for Harry?” Niall gaped. “Instead of addressing whatever the larger issue is here? We'll just patch it over with a child? That's not fair.”

“None of this is fair,” Nick answered. “We just have to do what we can and I think this is a solid start.”

“You should talk to Louis about this,” Liam put in while Harry scowled. “ _Harry_. I'm serious. This idea – you need buy-in from members of Zayn's inner circle before you start going about the steps that would actually end up with you having a child.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond when a knock came to the door. Harry looked at his men with a frown and Nick stood to answer it, Kevin ducking his head in and smiling when he saw Harry.

“Yes?” Harry asked pleasantly. “Is everything all right, Kevin?”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Kevin answered. “Prince Zayn just wanted to guarantee that you were here. He woke up and was very distressed when he realized you were not in his rooms.”

Harry tilted his head, thinking back to only ten minutes ago when he saw Zayn and Louis walking about the castle grounds. Zayn did not appear distressed at all, and Harry was sure that if he was, he would be checking up on Harry himself. He would not need to send Kevin to do it.

“I just wanted to see my countrymen,” Harry settled upon as his answer. “I have not spent time with them in nearly a month and have missed their company.”

“Prince Zayn requests your presence for lunch,” Kevin continued. “He said that he has a gift for you.”

Harry blinked before smiling, large and superficial. “I will be there. Please tell him that I would not miss it for the world.”

Kevin nodded and Nick closed the door behind him, frowning at the spot Kevin had just been occupying.

“That was odd,” Niall remarked.

“The Prince just wants to know who Harry is spending his time with,” Nick said, making his way back over to the table with a sigh. “I would not be surprised if young Kevin's entire job is to report back to Prince Zayn on Harry's activities throughout the day.”

“Spying on Harry?” Niall asked. “That's ridiculous.”

“It's a common tactic at any court,” Liam cut in. “I – when we were still in Holmes, I was instructed to tell Queen Anne about any changes to Harry's daily routine.”

“Liam!” Harry sputtered. “You couldn't – you didn't – ”

“Naturally, I provided the Queen with a thoroughly censored, redacted report,” Liam continued hastily. “But anyone who is assigned as a bodyguard or personal servant typically reports to a member of the royal family or someone else within the court. That's just sort of standard.”

“And who do you report to?” Harry scowled.

“Do not take your aggression out on the wrong person, Harry,” Nick scolded. “You know that Liam is here to serve you. That was the mission your mother assigned both him and Niall before you all left. _Hackles down_.”

Harry slumped into his chair and looked up at the ceiling, beseeching the gods to take some mercy on him. Had he really been so blind to all of this before? All of the gifts, all of the special attention – did he really believe that none of it would come at a price?

“You are going to need to talk to Louis,” Nick continued, this time in a softer, sweeter tone of voice. “Okay, Harry? If you want to meet Prince Zayn on even footing, you are going to need to truly begin wooing other members of this court. Start with Louis and maybe Matty, then talk to some of the Ladies – Lady Swift, Lady Calder. Perhaps even the Princesses. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded even as exhaustion settled into his extremities. He was bone tired and there was nothing he wanted to do less than talk to Zayn's family and friends. Or anyone, truly.

It was only when Harry thought of his mother and the warnings she had supplied to him as a young boy that his resolve strengthened. She had been right – the world was not fair. His charmed existence did indeed come at a price. And he was the only one who could guarantee that he was not Prince Zayn's pawn. Harry finished the rest of his meal in a contemplative silence, determined to be a more cunning Prince.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try and get back on my two-week posting schedule, but I'm still behind on my Big Bang so no promises xx


	10. Part Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry had detested these manipulations for so long, had turned his nose up at the men and women who resorted to such exploitation, but that did not mean he did not know how to employ them himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Rue, Fee, Emily, and Grace for giving this chapter a read-through and for always asking the best targeted questions. And thank you to everyone who is sticking with this story - I really do appreciate feedback. It always, without fail, makes my day!

Harry woke up the next morning feeling far less resolved than he had the day before.

After his breakfast with Nick, Niall, and Liam, Harry had taken his lunch with Zayn, as requested. The day had been cooler, as close to brisk as it seemed to get in the tropical capital, but they still took their meal on Zayn's patio overlooking the gardens. It was nice, Zayn running his bare feet along the inside of Harry's legs, and they hardly made it thirty minutes before they were stumbling back into Zayn's room, Zayn pushing Harry down on his front while he shucked Harry's trousers off and licked a trail down Harry's back, sucking around Harry's rim and making Harry's eyes go cross. They fucked off and on for the rest of the day, leisurely and dreamy, before they decided to make an appearance at the banquet hall for dinner. Zayn pulled Harry in close, pushing strands of hair out of Harry's eyes while he smiled, Zayn's own hazel eyes sparkling and soft.

“What?” Harry asked, squirming underneath Zayn's gaze.

“I just – I wanted to apologize again for upsetting you a few days ago,” Zayn mumbled, his touch delicate along the lines of Harry's face. “That was never my intention. I only want what is best for you.”

Harry nodded, ducking in to kiss Zayn. They went down to dinner hand-in-hand and returned to Harry's quarters in the same state, tumbling into bed with all of the intensity that their newlywed state would imply. Even as Harry threw his head back in pleasure, eyes squeezing shut as Zayn did that thing with his tongue that always made Harry's toes curl, Harry had the distinct feeling that he was not the only one who relied upon sex as a distraction.

And yet even when Harry woke up the next morning, with sunlight streaming through his room and Zayn spooned behind him, Harry did not feel as strongly about things as he had the morning before. Perhaps he had overreacted. Perhaps Zayn was being one hundred percent honest with him. Perhaps Harry just needed to learn to deal with Zayn's secrecy. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Harry had always had an aversion for confrontation. He did not like it when people were upset with him. He did not like to raise his voice if he did not have to. And he did not like the idea of disappointing people or having to go behind their backs.

Harry valued openness and honesty, wanted nothing more than to lean across the width of Zayn's chest and wake him up with kisses and oil slick fingers. But Harry also knew that was his naivety talking, the urge to make himself charming and agreeable, the best husband. So Harry pushed himself out of bed and called up servants to run him a bath, pushing down against the urge to crawl back in next to Zayn and let him continue to lull him into a false sense of security with warm hands and soft lips.

  


Harry decided to forgo breakfast and instead met up with Nick in the gardens in the latter half of the afternoon. Nick greeted Harry with a hug and slung his arm over Harry's shoulders as they meandered through the high mazes decorating the outer perimeter of the gardens. Harry huffed out a breath as they walked, rubbing his hands together. It was not warm enough for gloves but the air still had a bit of a bite to it. Harry hoped it would rain, longed for gray clouds that rolled in from the coast and blanketed the capital in wetness.

“I don't know if I can go through with this, Nick,” Harry confided, voice hardly above a murmur. “I just – I look at Zayn and wonder if it is foolish to try and work against him.”

“How do you mean?”

Harry hardly even knew how to explain his thoughts. Everything seemed conflicting – on the one hand he wanted to avoid strife and dissatisfaction, but on the other he knew that things would never change unless he took some initiative and started actively working toward his own happiness and security. But it was hard – gods, it was hard.

“I just don't know if I can do it,” Harry mumbled. “Essentially interrogating his friends – trying to determine next steps and how to best manipulate a Prince? I am not sure I even have the temperament for all of these things we are discussing.”

“Firstly, Harry, may I remind you that all of this was your idea? Secondly, everything we are discussing – none of it is some sort of formal thing, for gods sake,” Nick said, hauling Harry in by the shoulders and giving him a shake. It was the sort of thing Nick used to do to Harry all of the time when they were younger and Nick was frustrated by Harry's foolishness. “All we are talking about are conversations with friends – because they are your friends as well, no? You are behaving as though we are plotting treason and we are not. We are simply talking, getting a feel for things, asking Lady Swift if she would like to have a bit of cake together.”

“Yes, but won't everyone become suspicious?” Harry asked, frowning when the wind blew his hair into his face. Nick moved to block the breeze and Harry smiled at him glibly. “I mean – won't Lady Swift be able to tell that I want something? I have not spoken to her in weeks.”

“You're the Prince Consort,” Nick replied with a shrug. “You're allowed to use people. They should consider it a privilege.”

“ _Nick_ – ”

“I'm serious,” Nick interrupted soberly. “Do you think that Prince Zayn has this same level of apprehension when he needs something from one of his subjects? I sincerely doubt it.”

“But Zayn is far more subtle than I am,” Harry whined. “Personable.”

“You are the most charming person I have ever met,” Nick answered dismissively. “Sure, you have the subtlety of an arriving horde of mercenaries, but you still make people feel welcome and important. And one way to start that is to ask the Lady if she would like to have a bit of cake together. That's it, Harry.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort something when he spotted the source of their conversation making her way across the garden, a servant girl in tow. “Taylor!” Harry exclaimed, something warm settling in his chest at the sight of her familiar straw-colored hair. Taylor turned toward Harry's voice, cheeks pink with the wind, but she smiled, immediately making her way over to Harry and Nick. “I have not seen you in weeks!”

“My dear Harry,” Taylor said, her own face softening. To his side, Harry heard Nick excuse himself, sinking into a bow before making his way back into the castle, but not before brushing his hands across Harry's wrist, seemingly as a reminder of Harry's task. “It _has_ been a long time. How are you, love?”

“Well enough, I suppose,” Harry answered with a sigh. “As well as I could hope to be. And yourself?”

“Rather tired, I must admit,” Taylor replied. “I am unsure as to whether you have already heard, but Matty and I have finally selected a date for the wedding. It will be held at the coast next summer, at his mother's property.”

Harry's mind immediately supplied the image of Matty's family home, the lush sprawling estate overlooking the sea where Harry had fallen asleep to the soft sound of music every night, and Matty's mother. Fair haired and warm, Lady Healy had served as a motherly figure at a time when Harry was still in pining for his own. Harry could only imagine how beautiful the wedding ceremony would be underneath that woman's patient, doting eye.

“I have already checked with Prince Zayn to make sure the date will not conflict with any of your obligations,” Taylor continued. “He says that it will be all right as the coronation is likely being pushed back anyway – ”

“You know about the coronation?” Harry interrupted with a frown. “I thought that knowledge was confidential.”

Taylor flashed a grin, bright and blinding. “Harry, it's _me_. Matty is my fiance – of course I know.”

Harry had to bite down against the urge to say something unkind. It wasn't Taylor's fault that Matty confided information in her while his own husband did not. It would not be fair to lash out at her because of failings within his own relationship.

“Love?” Taylor asked, keen gray-blue eyes sharp and assessing, seemingly picking up every downward quirk on his face. “Did I – is something wrong?”

“It's no fault of yours,” Harry mumbled. “Just – it's only my own insecurities.”

Taylor pushed her shoulders back, assembling herself to full height. “The rumors of you and Prince Zayn quarreling are not true, are they?”

Harry very nearly told her to _ask Matty_ , but he dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand instead and looked out across the gardens. “We – I'm not quite sure what it is we are doing,” Harry settled upon after a moment's pause. “I am trying my best to please him.”

“The Prince is mercurial. I'm sure that the mood will pass and you will both be back to normal.”

Harry wasn't even sure what normal was for he and Zayn. Was normal both of them operating in their own silos, hardly speaking? Or was it this strange truce they were currently tolerating, whispering sweetness into each other's necks before tumbling into bed with kisses and bites as though nothing was wrong?

Harry fell silent as Taylor began discussing some of the details of her wedding. Harry wondered what it was like – having the luxury of planning such an important moment in one's life, from selecting the date to fussing over the dinner. Having the privilege of even selecting one's mate, the surging excitement of knowing that you were binding yourself to another human forever with promises to love, hold, and treasure.

Harry had hardly even noticed that Taylor had fallen silent until her jaw had been working for at least a full moment. Harry pouted at her until he found the source of her agitation. Across the gardens, Harry could make out Zayn, Matty, and Louis' figures, Zayn and Louis dressed in their riding clothes and dabbing at the back of their necks with towels. Matty was stood between them, whispering quick and ferociously.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked, Taylor still tense at his side.

“Matty told me that Duke Tomlinson was still out of the Prince's favor,” Taylor admitted quietly. “I – I suppose I was not expecting that sight.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I saw Zayn and Louis riding together only a few nights ago. I don't think they have been quarreling for several days, at least.”

Taylor sighed before pursing her lips in a scowl. “I don't know why I got my hopes up – perhaps I believed that your influence would help Prince Zayn see the error of his ways.”

“But I do not dislike Louis,” Harry answered. “I may find his personality jarring at times but they are brothers. How they deal with each other is none of my business.”

“He is a snake,” Taylor hissed, suddenly gathering her skirts around her. “Why everyone refuses to acknowledge this fact – ”

“Taylor!” Harry interrupted. “Perhaps I would acknowledge it if you told me why you have such an intense hatred for him.”

Harry watched Taylor gulp, her eyes darting about as she thought. She finally nodded, once and sharp before gesturing for Harry to follow her back inside of the castle. “We cannot have this conversation in the gardens,” Taylor said. “Let's journey up to my rooms.”

  


Taylor took Harry to a wing of the castle he had never found reason to visit before. The twisting hallways were warmer, directly facing the sun at this point of the day, and instead of views of the gardens, Taylor's room overlooked the city of Jinan in all of its sprawling glory. Everything about Taylor's room was cozy, with a large canopy bed in the center and a full wall of dressers. Beneath the window was a small table and a tea set, several papers lying on one of the wooden seats. Taylor collected these papers before dropping them onto her bed, gesturing for Harry to sit and make himself comfortable.

“I'll call up one of the servants to get us warm water,” Taylor said, walking back over to grab the tea kettle and ducking out of the room for a moment. When she returned, she seemed slightly less frazzled, and she kicked her shoes off with a sigh, collecting all of her hair to one shoulder and braiding it lazily with long, pale fingers.

Two servants appeared at the door not five minutes later. Taylor let them in and gestured for them to set trays of food onto the small table. The first servant, a tall teenager with red hair and fair, freckled skin, darted forward immediately, but the second servant hung back hesitantly in the doorway, her figure blocked by cabinets. Harry frowned and moved his head to see what was the matter, his look of confusion immediately giving way to a smile as he took in the familiar brown skin and dark, curly hair. She looked older with her hair pulled back away from her face in a plait, but even without a pear clutched in her grasp, a small baby strapped to her chest, Harry was sure he would always remember the little peasant girl who showed him an act of kindness.

“Sarah,” Harry's brain supplied, the girl almost preening under Harry's recognition. “Love, when did you start working in the castle?”

“A few weeks ago!” Sarah exclaimed, setting the tray down in front of Harry and grinning. She still reminded Harry so much of Gemma, the same mannerisms and the same warm, blinding grin. “My Uncle has been sick, so his wife – ”

The redhead laid a hand on Sarah's shoulder, fingernails pressing hard against the bare skin of her collarbone. Sarah immediately fell silent, the spark in her beautiful brown eyes dimming almost as quickly as it came. Anger unfurled in Harry's stomach and he turned to the redhead, the girl shirking underneath his cool gaze.

“Sarah was talking,” Harry said.

“Your Highness – ” the redhead began but Harry rolled his eyes.

“That's quite enough. Go,” Harry replied. The redhead turned to leave, hand still on Sarah's shoulder, but Harry made a small, warning noise. “You are dismissed but Sarah can stay. Thank you.”

The redhead's nostrils flared but she curtsied nonetheless, turning and stalking out of Taylor's room, slamming the door behind her. Taylor made a soft, choked off noise and Harry turned, realizing that she was actually snickering.

“What?” Harry asked as Sarah let out a long but quiet breath, almost swaying on the spot.

“Just – you,” Taylor said. “Like, _of course_ you would get all righteously angry over the treatment of a servant.”

“That girl was being mean,” Harry protested. “She had no right to silence Sarah, not when I was speaking to her directly.”

“I'm not saying you did anything wrong, don't worry, Harry,” Taylor replied, taking her seat and picking up a pastry. “That Monica girl is a right terror, but I kept my mouth shut because I know that there's a whole other hierarchy down in the kitchens. Best to not even get involved, yes?”

Harry pursed his lips before turning back to the trays of food, picking up a bit of chocolate and holding it out to Sarah. Harry had never quite understood the harsh divisions between people at court – always spoke to anyone who would humor him, truly, and he knew that Sarah was a sweet little girl. Sarah took the sweet from his hand hesitantly, putting it in her mouth with an impish grin.

“Your Uncle is sick?” Harry said, picking out some of the best sweets from the tray and assembling them on a plate. He held the plate out for Sarah to take and she held it in her hands, brown eyes watery underneath Harry's intense gaze.

“Yes,” Sarah finally responded. “He hurt himself – broke his leg when he fell off of his horse. Then he had a fever. His wife said I needed to make myself useful since Joshua is still a baby and we are expensive, so I came to the kitchens and asked for a job.”

“And that red-haired girl – Monica – has she been nice? And everyone else in the kitchens?”

Sarah lifted a shoulder and busied herself with taking another bite of chocolate. The non-answer was enough of a response in itself. Harry sighed, rubbing his hand over his face.

“Do you know who Kevin is?”

Sarah nodded. “The soldier who comes to get food for you and Prince Zayn?”

“Yes,” Harry said, smiling warmly when Taylor stood to grab a bit of parchment, an inkwell, and a quill. Harry took the proffered items and jotted down a quick note to Kevin, glancing up occasionally to look at Sarah. “You'll be working with him now, okay?”

Sarah frowned but she nodded hesitantly. “So I won't be working in this wing of the castle anymore?”

“No,” Harry replied. “I don't want you to be anywhere that you aren't comfortable. Is that all right?”

Sarah's eyes widened and she did a quick little dance in front of Harry, still holding onto her plate of sweets. “Yes, of course, Your Highness! Quite more than all right!”

“Good,” Harry said with a smile. “Now, finish your sweets and then go down to the other end of the castle and find Kevin. Give him this note and he'll know what to do.”

Sarah nodded enthusiastically, darting forward to wrap her arms around Harry's neck and press sugary lips to his cheek. Harry burned red underneath her but found it impossible not to bring his arms around her tiny body and give her a quick squeeze. She smelled so homey and familiar, like fresh bread and lavender, and Harry had to push against the urge to tell her that she didn't need to continue working at court at all – that little boys and girls should not have to spend all of their days laboring indoors. That children needed to be given the space to play just like Niall had when he was a boy. But Harry knew that he could not take in an orphan, no matter how strongly her ferocity reminded him of Gemma or how her deep, playful brown eyes made Harry think of Zayn's warm, hazel ones.

Sarah ate one more treat before wrapping up the rest of the pastries in a handkerchief and hiding it in her skirt. Harry watched her with a wry, amused smile, one that only grew once Sarah darted forward for another hug. Sarah let herself out and Harry turned to Taylor, who was tapping at her chin with a thoughtful expression.

“What?” Harry asked, squirming underneath Taylor's speculative gaze.

“You are quite fond of that girl,” Taylor remarked. “How do you know her?”

“We encountered her and a pack of other children on the road leading out of Jinan,” Harry answered. “That first weekend – my honeymoon weekend.”

Taylor nodded. “She's leader of that pack of orphans. The scavengers that roam about the streets.”

Harry frowned. Sarah was not an animal who picked through scraps. “That's not very nice.”

“But it's true, you know it. And now you've taken her under your wing.”

Harry blinked at Taylor. “Are you _cross_ with me for showing a child some kindness?”

“No – ”

“It seems as though you are,” Harry said. “And I would recommend that you look into removing whatever bias you have against Sarah before the anger becomes mutual.”

Taylor quirked an eyebrow. “I'm just looking out for you, Harry. There's a rumor bounding throughout court that you are looking into finding a child to replace the gaping wound left by the death of your mother. I would just recommend that you pick one of better stock than an orphaned peasant.”

Harry stood, suddenly blindly angry. He was so sick of this court – of its gossip, of its judgments. “And considering the bullshit that just came flowing out of your mouth, I would recommend that you remember who else has recently lost their parents before throwing the word 'orphan' around like an insult,” Harry hissed.

And just like Sarah, Harry let himself out.

  


The next morning, Harry found himself in Zayn's quarters, blinking himself into alertness as someone banged against Zayn's doors.

“Zayn?” Harry asked sleepily, poking at Zayn's hip. Zayn mumbled something, wrapping his arms around Harry's waist, but otherwise he did not stir. “Zayn, love? Did you have a meeting or something?”

Zayn opened one eye before shaking his head and squeezing Harry's middle harder. Harry groaned, annoyed at being awaken for no clear reason, but he called, “Come in!” nonetheless.

Zayn pulled the blankets higher up around Harry and himself as Sarah made her way into the room, face almost entirely obscured by the large vase of flowers she was carrying. Harry smiled at her as she set the vase onto Harry's bedside table before scurrying out of the room, shutting the double doors behind her with a surprisingly quiet snick.

“Flowers? Who are they from?” Zayn croaked, lazily running the pads of his fingers across Harry's bare back while Harry leaned over the vase, plucking the note from it and skimming over the words written there. The vase was from Taylor – an apology for upsetting him the night before and a plea for his forgiveness. Harry was almost disappointed. Taylor should know better than to try and woo Harry's clemency. It hadn't worked for Zayn, so why should she be any different?

“They're from Lady Swift,” Harry snorted, tossing the note onto the bedside table. “I don't want them.”

“Are you going to return them?” Zayn asked, a wry smile appearing on his face, and Harry nodded before pushing himself out of bed and lifting the vase into his arms.

Harry somehow managed to throw the double doors open and looked about the hall. As he anticipated, Kevin was the only person out there, sitting on his usual stool. Kevin hardly even blinked at Harry's nudity, instead quirked an eyebrow and asked, “Yes, Your Highness?”

“Return these to Lady Swift, if you can?” Harry asked, placing the heavy vase in Kevin's arms. “Tell her that there are far better ways to earn an apology.”

Kevin grinned and nodded before darting his way down the hall, leaping down the staircase with an ease Harry wished he could imitate.

Harry returned to Zayn's room where Zayn had since propped himself up against the headboard, pouring himself a glass of water from the jug sitting on his personal bedside table. Harry crept into bed beside him, snuggling against Zayn's side.

“I think you should have a late morning today,” Harry suggested, kissing the inside of Zayn's arm while Zayn drank long from his glass, Adam's apple bobbing as he regarded Harry questioningly. Harry almost hated how desperate he sounded, but Harry _needed_ Zayn, needed the security and the distraction.

Harry lost himself in the chase, in the wetness of Zayn's mouth and the filthy roll of his tongue. Zayn opened Harry up almost agonizingly slowly, with low murmurs and confident hands. Everything about Zayn was a contradiction, really, confusing but wondrous, and it truly shined through in the way he fucked Harry, teasing Harry's entrance until Harry was sweaty and belligerent before pushing in. Harry felt hot all over, eager for everything that Zayn would give him, and the sore ache of Zayn's cock melted into dull pleasure as Zayn rocked against that spot inside of Harry that made his thighs quiver and his eyes fly open. Zayn was everywhere, grasping Harry's hands in his own as he thrust in deep, bumping his forehead against Harry's cheek and panting. Harry was overwhelmed and almost delirious with pleasure, content to let Zayn push into him forever.

Harry wrapped his legs around the back of Zayn's thighs, urging him deeper, begging for all that Zayn could give him, harder, faster, _more_. But Zayn shook his head and kissed at Harry's cheek, nosed down the column of Harry's neck, mumbling nonsensical niceties as he continued his torturous pace, wrestling grunts and moans and pleas out of Harry's mouth with every pump. He also knocked away Harry's hand when Harry went to reach for himself, growling and saying, “No, I want you to come from _only_ this.”

And Harry did, thighs shaking as the entirety of the universe shrank down to the feeling of Zayn's release leaking out of him, the weight of Zayn's frame the sweetest thing in the entire world.

  


Harry spent the next few days indulging in some of his favorite activities. He visited the marketplace in the center of Jinan and spent hours shadowing Professor Sheeran at the university. He went riding every other morning, sometimes with Zayn, sometimes with Liam and Niall. Some mornings Harry simply opted for riding Zayn instead, nipping and biting Zayn while Harry held him close and swallowed his moans. But mostly Harry avoided Taylor.

Partly it was because Harry knew that his distance would only make her more anxious and therefore more eager to share secrets. But partly it was because Harry did not want anything to do with her. He was legitimately upset with her words and what he perceived as her callousness. Harry had always been willing to give Taylor the benefit of the doubt, hesitant as he was to dismiss any woman as being shrill or overly emotional as he saw men at court do with his own mother, but Harry suddenly began to wonder if maybe Louis was right about her, if perhaps Taylor's intense dislike was unfair.

Harry was upset with Taylor for about a week before he finally decided to accept Taylor's invitation for tea. He met her in her quarters once more, rapping on the door and waiting in the hallway for a long moment before she threw her doors back, gesturing for Harry to enter. Harry took his seat at her table and removed his robe and gloves, smiling wanly as Taylor took a seat across from him. There were already pasties strewn across the table, warm, freshly made, and inviting. Harry loaded up a plate for himself before nodding at Taylor, taking in her pale features and the slight trembling of her hands as she sipped at her own cup of tea.

“Your Highness, you must know that I am deeply remorseful,” Taylor said, her eyes watery with the threat of tears. “I would never say something to insult you or cause you injury. You _have_ to know that.”

Harry played with his own cup of tea and pursed his lips. Harry knew that this was all a game – the twist of his mouth, the dart of his eyes. He had detested these manipulations for so long, had turned his nose up at the men and women who resorted to such exploitation, but that did not mean he did not know how to employ them himself.

“I have to be sure of your loyalty, Taylor,” Harry settled upon saying, making note of the way Taylor leaned forward, the hardness in her face giving away how hungry she was for Harry's approval. Harry distantly wondered why that was, curious as to whether things were a bit tense between her and Zayn. Obviously Matty and Zayn continued to be thick as thieves, but now that Harry thought about it, it did not seem like Taylor had ever spent much time in Zayn's company, and Zayn hardly said anything when Taylor sent Harry flowers. Just smiled and climbed on top of Harry when Harry returned to bed.

“You never have to doubt me, Your Highness,” Taylor replied. “I have been in your service before you ever set foot in this kingdom. You have my word.”

“Words aren't enough any longer.”

Taylor's bottom lip trembled but she raised her chin defiantly. “What do you need me to do in order to earn your trust?”

“I don't need you to do anything at this point,” Harry said. “I just need your information.” Taylor gulped, lips still shaking, but Harry knew that he had his in. “Taylor, I desperately need for you to tell me if I need to be wary of Lord Duke Tomlinson,” Harry continued. “You have said many times that you do not trust him personally, but if there are reasons as to why I should be skeptical of his assistance, you need to alert me now.”

Taylor opened her mouth and shook her head helplessly. “Your Highness, you must understand that not all of these secrets are mine to tell – ”

“I do recall that you once said that gossip is the only currency of importance at court,” Harry replied, leaning back in his seat and taking a sip of his tea. “I used to think all of that was hogwash but we both know it's true – you throwing the rumor of my desire for a child in my face proved that. So it does not matter to me whose secrets they are. I have wasted enough time as it is waiting for all of you to trust me.”

Taylor continued to shake her head, this time far more urgently. “It was never that we did not trust you, Your Highness – ”

Harry smiled as he interrupted Taylor. “I apologize for swearing in front of a Lady of your stature and dignity, but we both know that is absolute bullshit.”

Taylor gulped and looked about herself, gathering the pleats in her dress for lack of anything else to do with her hands. “I – I know I said things about Tomlinson, but I did also want you to form your own opinions about him.”

“How was I supposed to do that with you mumbling and cursing him all of the time?” Harry asked, more than a little exasperated. “ _Please_.”

Taylor gripped her dress so tightly her knuckles went white. “Prince Zayn instructed me to be civil,” Taylor hissed. “I did my best, Your Highness.”

“You did your best considering how deeply your dislike and distrust for the Lord Duke runs,” Harry said. “Please, Taylor. _Tell me why_.”

Taylor scowled before taking a long, deep breath and covering her face with her hands. “It's – you have to understand, Your Highness. This story does not make me look particularly wise.”

“Taylor,” Harry said softly, reaching across the table to lay his hand on Taylor's elbow. “You are speaking to someone that a court used to refer to as 'Prince Brat.' I will not judge you. I just need you to trust me.”

Taylor nodded, finally tearing her palms away from her face. Her cheeks were red with embarrassment and she continually licked at her lips, seemingly steeling herself to speak.

“I was thirteen or so when my parents finally let me come to court,” Taylor began slowly. “It was common knowledge, of course, that Prince Zayn was betrothed to a Princess from one of the autonomous warrior tribes to the North, but there had been longstanding rumors that King Yaser was looking to break the arrangement. The King, as you know, is not of our kingdom – he is an outsider and the throne runs through Queen Patricia. There were – and still are – some at court who are weary of him, see him as an interloper. Word had gotten to my parents that the King was considering the idea of betrothing Prince Zayn to a noblewoman instead, as a sign of good faith and his commitment to the furthering of our kingdom and our court's interests. This was before it became common knowledge that Prince Zayn was being primed to take the throne over Princess Doniya, but either way, it was a shot at becoming a Princess.

“Naturally, I was told that I must win Prince Zayn's affection and King Yaser's esteem. Prince Zayn and I had always been fairly good friends – the Queen's home in Urooba is within walking distance of our familial estate, and in addition to being a Marquess, my father was a well-regarded merchant when he lived in Jinan. The Prince and I corresponded quite regularly. I had as good a shot as anyone, and I was a good daughter who obeyed her father's commands. I came to court and set to earn Prince Zayn's love.

“I was at court for two years and the King and Queen had yet to break Prince Zayn's betrothal, although Prince Zayn had already confided to me that if his father were to engineer a new marriage, he would ask that it be between himself and I. Our relationship was never romantic, but we were close friends. Over the years, I actually gained the distinct impression that Prince Zayn was incapable of romantic love. It did not seem to interest him, and as I was not intrigued by the idea either, it would have been a very good love match of another sort. It was around this time that Lord Duke Tomlinson came to court.”

Taylor laughed, brushing an errant strand of blonde hair from her eyes. From across the table, Harry could not tell what color her eyes even were, unable to determine whether in this moment they were stormy gray or sky blue.

“Were you attracted to Louis when he first arrived?” Harry asked, regarding Taylor slyly, noting the slight hitch in her breath as she stubbornly avoided Harry's gaze. “Is this what that was all about?”

“Oh, yes, of course I was,” Taylor said, seemingly shaking her head at her younger self. “You know the way people get when someone new arrives at court. They are like a new toy that everyone wants a turn with. And he was _handsome_ – not all ratty looking like he is now. He had something to prove then, even though he was from old, storied stock, and he certainly looked the part.” Taylor pursed her lips and frowned, scratching along the inside of her bicep. “I thought he was interesting and I was attracted to him. I was fifteen and I was foolish. We – we laid together because that's what I thought you did when someone was nice to you, and I almost believed – I don't know. But he was filling my head with all sorts of nonsense, playing a game I was ill-equipped to match.

“Tomlinson asked me to introduce him to Prince Zayn, said that in exchange he would take me to someone he knew. A magician. Tomlinson said that the magician would be able to give me anything I desired. And I was such a silly little girl – all I wanted was wealth and power. It was all that my father had primed me for all my life, so it was what I asked. I did not know that all magic comes at a price. I did not know that they warp your words, are able to give you what you want, but nothing at all like what you desire.”

Harry almost had to stop himself from knocking over his own cup of tea. Caroline's words were suddenly ringing in his ears – “ _I'm not the only witch or warlock around! I'm not entirely certain who it is . . . . But whoever they are, they are stronger than me. . ._ ”

Harry couldn't help but wonder – was this magician the same witch or warlock blocking Caroline and protecting Prince Zayn from harm? And how could he even possibly figure this bit of information out?

“I returned to court after this encounter with a magician, but things had changed between Prince Zayn and I,” Taylor continued. She seemed oblivious to Harry's own confusion and internal strife, entirely lost in her memories and the tale she was recounting on Harry's behalf. “It was not a large shift, but I could feel it. We were not as close. Instead of confiding in me, he was confiding in Tomlinson. I – I did not know what to make of it. There were rumors that Tomlinson had worked some sort of enchantment over the Prince but I – I felt as though I knew them both so intimately. I was so foolish and did not believe that Tomlinson could do such a thing. Now, of course, I cannot be so sure. He did know a magician – who knows what sorts of things he asked for?” Taylor took a long, shuddering gasp and turned to Harry with starry slate-blue eyes. “And that is when the other rumors began.”

“What rumors?”

“Harry you have to understand – nobody at court knew they were brothers. Nobody but the Queen and she was loathe to admit to her youthful indiscretion. But then it was revealed that Tomlinson was not the child of the family who had raised him but instead the bastard son of Queen Patricia.” Taylor gripped at her arms, almost as though a cold chill had passed through the room. “You can imagine the scandal. It was all anyone talked about at court for _months_.”

“What are you saying, Taylor?” Harry demanded, a weight settling into his stomach. He felt suddenly and intensely ill, sick threatening to spill out of his throat if Taylor was alluding to what he thought she was. He just needed her to make it plain, say the words that she was so fervently dancing around, as though giving voice to them would conjure up banished ghosts and monsters.

“There was . . . talk,” Taylor said, wringing her hands in her lap. “Rumors. And that's all there were, Your Highness. I _have_ to believe that, particularly because Prince Zayn had always seemed so disinterested in the romantic aspirations of others. But there were some at court who thought that something inappropriate happened between the Prince and Tomlinson. Tomlinson came to the Prince's quarters late at night on occasion and they did exchange a few gifts and then the Prince made Tomlinson a Duke. But I don't – ”

Harry held his hand up before screwing his eyes shut, exhaling slow and deep and telling his body to stop trembling. Gossip, insinuation – Harry understood that the slightest thing could form the basis for the silliest trite. Hell, Harry had once heard that there was a rumor going around his own court that he was bedding his step-father's sister, and that was only because she had laughed at one of his jokes during dinner. Harry knew all of this, appreciated the nature of court and what it meant to be a source of constant speculation and intrigue, and yet he was still shaking as he let Taylor's words wash over him.

Because this wasn't typical court gossip. This was an allegation of _incest_.

There had been similar talk at his own court. They were twins, a boy and a girl, both with dark hair and seawater green eyes. The Connor siblings. They were nice enough, but distant, kept to themselves more often than not. Their parents died during a horrific forest fire when they were both very young and they were brought up by an aunt who sent them to court the moment it was appropriate to do so. Harry had always thought the brother, Jeffrey, was a fine fellow, and Harry had once spent a week trying to woo the sister, Elizabeth, but mostly Harry did not pay them much mind.

Harry was around fifteen when the rumors of inappropriateness started. Harry wasn't sure who had first put the insinuation out there – but it was certainly true that Jeffrey and Elizabeth had a very close relationship. Nick once swore up and down that he had seen Jeffrey with his hand on his sister's waist in some alcove, and even Niall, who was not prone to gossip in the slightest, admitted that he had witnessed Jeffrey leaving Elizabeth's quarters very late at night, appearing flushed and disheveled. Harry tried not to get involved in what then became a public shaming, one that ended with Elizabeth hastily marrying some knight and leaving court to live a quiet, remote life in the country, but Harry did always wonder whether the rumors were true or not, or if an entire court ruined a poor girl's reputation just because she happened to be extraordinarily close to her brother, the only family she had.

Taylor was watching Harry flit through warring emotions with sad but keen eyes and Harry wanted nothing more than to duck away and hide. In this moment, he hated Taylor and the rest of this country's court for ever maligning his husband. And he hated Louis for ever creating a situation that would cause such talk and condemnation. But mostly Harry hated himself for prying and for being curious, for digging and demanding answers to questions he was not even equipped to ask.

“So you do not believe that something shameful occurred between the Prince and Louis?” Harry asked, rubbing at his eyes as he brought his gaze up to meet Taylor's.

“I do not,” Taylor replied. “Do I think Tomlinson seduced and used me to get close to the Prince? Yes. Do I believe he utilizes enchantments and spells to get his way? Yes. But I do not believe that he beguiled the Prince, took him to bed, and committed ungodly acts.” Taylor shook her head and took a long, slow breath. “Tomlinson is a bastard and a cheat but I have to hope that he has some small modicum of decency.”

“Then why did you tell me about this gossip?” Harry asked, voice high and more than a little hysterical. “If you do not think it is true, why did you divulge it?”

“I may not think it happened, but there is a huge swath of people that do,” Taylor answered with a slight sniffle. “Your Highness, there are some here that believe your marriage to Prince Zayn was arranged as a way to end all of that speculation in the first place. I mean, how frequently do we see queer betrothals? You have cousins – if they wanted a peace bride, they could have found one in your family. But instead the King asked for _you_.”

Harry blinked up at Taylor as bits of a puzzle he had not even considered in months finally locked into place. Harry gave himself a few moments of silence before finally giving in to the pressing urge to run away.

  


Harry returned to his rooms and told Kevin that he did not want to see anyone save Nick for the rest of the evening. Kevin examined Harry quizzically before nodding his understanding. Harry locked the double doors behind him and pressed his ear to the wood as he heard Kevin scamper away, presumably to tell Zayn that Harry was behaving strangely and seeking refuge in Nick's arms or some other silliness. Harry hated himself for even caring.

Harry undressed hastily and threw himself into bed, Taylor's words running circles in his head. It was somewhat reassuring knowing exactly why Taylor hated Louis so intensely and Harry could understand cultivating a deep well of dislike for someone who would so willingly manipulate a woman for power and privilege.

But, naturally, it was the other bit of information that made Harry feel so unsettled. How could he not be? Harry had fully expected a tale of lies and coercion, but he had not expected allegations of incest and shame. That – Harry had not been prepared. Not in the slightest.

To make matters worse, the more Harry sat and mulled it over, the more the evidence seemed to point against Louis and Zayn. Hadn't Zayn even said it himself when he and Harry were discussing the extraordinary circumstances that had let to their betrothal – “ _This isn't a punishment for you like it is for me_.”

Punishment. As though Zayn was burdened with Harry, tasked with his presence as retribution for an earlier sin.

Even Louis had said as much, months and months ago, before Harry had ever even met Zayn. Louis had come to Harry's quarters after that awful dinner at Lord Bieber's estate and the two of them had sat shoulder-to-shoulder to discuss the rapidly approaching wedding, Louis confiding, “ _He thinks it's some twisted form of retribution for his friendship with me._ ”

Everything just made so much sense and Harry hated himself for not ever questioning it earlier.

He had let Zayn touch him, had let Zayn inside of him in the most intimate way, willingly given himself away to a man who may have once done the same _with his own_ –

Harry stood and began hastily pulling his clothes back on. He needed to get out of his head. He needed a drink.

  


Harry was drunk and in Nick's quarters. People would probably start talking about why he was here and not with Zayn, but all of those people could go fuck themselves.

Nick was currently staring at Harry with an open mouth and a gobsmacked expression. Harry had warbled his way through a recounting of his day, guzzling glasses of wine as he spoke. Nick had patiently listened throughout, periodically topping off Harry's glass, his entire face screwing up with concern the longer Harry spoke. When Harry's voice had gone hoarse from talking and from holding back tears, Nick took an unsteady breath and ran his fingers through his own hair, hand trembling as he gaped about his room with wild eyes. Harry pursed his own lips and tried to keep himself from snapping the wine stem of his glass clean in two.

“How is it that this news never made its way to you before?” Nick finally demanded. “How is it that you did not have the slightest inkling, not after so many months of being here at court?”

Harry lifted a shoulder as he sighed. “I'm not sure.”

“Surely Niall and Liam heard things,” Nick pressed. “I can almost understand talk like that being banned in your presence, but people must have looser lips around those two. This is just – it's unbelievable. A piece of gossip that huge would have _certainly_ made its way to your ears in one form or another.”

“Maybe it did,” Harry whispered. “Maybe I did hear things and I just ignored them. Ignorance is bliss and all.”

Nick tsked before making his way over to cabinets pushed against the far side of his room. Nick threw the doors open before finding a bottle of vodka, screwing open the bottle and upending a generous amount into his own mouth, squeezing his eyes shut at the taste.

Nick took a moment to collect himself before speaking again. “I have to believe that Niall and Liam heard something. Fuck, _I've_ heard all sorts of wild shit – about you, about Prince Zayn, even about myself – and I've only been here two months. Do you think it's possible they are withholding information from you?”

Harry frowned. “Are you doubting their allegiance?”

“I'm doubting their ability to decide which bits of information are important and which bits aren't,” Nick clarified. “Would they have any reason to not tell you things about Prince Zayn?”

“Do you mean reasons why they might pick loyalty to the Prince over loyalty to me?”

“Yes.”

Harry shook his head and let out a confused huff of breath. “Niall does not indulge in gossip, but I suppose he and Prince Zayn are decent enough friends. Prince Zayn technically employs Liam – has him involved in some of the military drills they perform here in the capital.”

Nick frowned before placing his vodka bottle back in the cabinet and shutting it. “Prince Zayn probably takes care of Niall's expenses,” Nick mumbled mostly to himself. “The royal family is wealthy enough that he could afford to provide Niall with some sort of stipend.”

Harry frowned. “How do you mean?”

“When the Queen sent you all here, it was with the understanding that she would provide financial support for the first eight or so months,” Nick explained. “By that point, Prince Zayn would be responsible for your comfort, of course, and she assumed that would be sufficient time for Niall and Liam to find some sort of employment or income stream. Liam obviously did that quite quickly, but he has a skill that would be very attractive here in the capital. Niall probably had more difficulty, and Prince Zayn might have just offered to help him out.” Nick shook his head as a wry smile appeared on his face. “It's really ridiculous how easily he was able to win over your two countrymen. I should have accompanied you all when Queen Anne offered me the chance.”

Harry turned to Nick, a scowl on his face. “My mother asked you to leave Holmes with me and you said, 'No'?”

Splotches of red appeared on Nick's countenance. “I wasn't sure if you would want me to, considering – well. _You know_. But we knew nothing about Prince Zayn and it was so far away from home and from my mother. I was comfortable at court and leaving would be such a tremendous risk. I was being selfish, I will admit it. It's a choice I regret now, but. Yes. Your mother did ask me if I would accompany you and keep an eye out for you.”

“Your help would have been invaluable early on, Nick,” Harry whined. “I can only imagine what sort of strides I would have been able to make with you at my side.”

Nick smiled fondly at Harry, ruffling his hair before sitting beside Harry on the bed. Harry took Nick's hand in his own, running the pads of his fingers over the familiar lines on Nick's palm.

“Do you believe those rumors about Zayn and Louis are true?” Harry asked hesitantly. “Do you really think the Prince is capable of – ?”

Nick's shoulders went tense before he released a long sigh. “I'm sure it's nothing more than an unsavory rumor,” Nick said, voice soft and soothing even though hard lines continued to contort his normally smiley face. “It's – it's outrageous to think otherwise, hmm?”

Harry hummed out an agreement, but the knots in his stomach remained.

  


Harry accidentally fell asleep on Nick's lounger but sneaked out in the middle of the night. He was making his way back to his own rooms when he encountered Louis in the hallway, similarly sneaking out of someone else's quarters. Harry paused for a moment as Louis froze, hands still on the door handle. Harry let his own eyes glide over the familiar double doors, clearing his throat as he shuffled his feet and tried not to think about what it meant that Louis was leaving Liam's rooms in the middle of the night.

Louis recovered quickly, shutting the door completely behind him and holding his hands out at his side with a grin. His top was almost completely undone and there was a purplish bruise high on his neck. There was really no doubt as to what he was doing in Liam's rooms.

“How long have you been bedding my countryman then?” Harry asked, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Was it before or after you propositioned me?”

“It doesn't matter,” Louis replied. “Just like it doesn't really matter why it is you're stumbling out of Grimshaw's room, right?”

Harry shook his head. “I'm not bedding him.” Louis arched an eyebrow. _Louis_ – as though he had any right to judge Harry's morality, as if he could say anything about laying with anyone. Harry curled his hand into a fist as he snarled, “ _I'm not_.”

Louis held his hands up defensively, throwing his hair over his shoulder. “I'm not accusing you of anything. Hell, even if you were, I certainly understand, we've all got needs – ”

“Do we?” Harry interrupted. “Is that why I heard that you once attended to your own needs with my husband's help?”

Louis peered at Harry, confusion written across his face. “What are you on about?”

“You know,” Harry growled.

“No, Harry,” Louis exclaimed. “I can honestly say that I do not.”

Harry shook his head and bit his lip before trying to push his way past Louis and down the hallway, but Louis grabbed Harry's shoulder and refused to loosen his grip.

“What are you so upset about?” Louis asked, his blue eyes squinted with concern. “Harry, what's wrong?”

“I spoke with Lady Swift,” Harry said. “And she told me _all_ about you. And Prince Zayn. And I've been so damn stupid – ”

“Are you drunk?” Louis squawked, shaking Harry's arm. “You reek of alcohol. So did you decide to get drunk today and let Lady Swift fill your head with lies?”

“You told me!” Harry yelled. “You told me yourself that I was brought here as a punishment for the Prince. And now I know that it was because of the shame and sin you and the Prince indulged in. How could I have been so fucking _stupid_? And I let him touch me, I took comfort in laying with him after _begging_ him for it, and you are both absolutely disgusting – ”

“I never laid with the Prince,” Louis sneered, dropping Harry's arm as though he had been scalded. “That was a rumor that Lady Taylor engineered because she was upset that I no longer wanted to fuck her. It backfired because it did become evident that the Prince and I are related and everyone knew we would not bring shame to the royal name. And then after smearing my name, the Prince still had no interest in making Lady Swift his wife. How could you possibly believe anything that comes out of her bitter, angry mouth?”

Harry was breathing hard and ragged and he took a few steps from Louis, not stopping until his back hit the wall. Harry slid to the ground and dug the heel of his palm into his eyes, not even fighting back against the wracking sobs that tore through his chest, tears splashing hot against his hands and down his cheeks. Louis mumbled a curse before falling to the floor in front of Harry, running his hands over Harry's knees and murmuring soothing words. Harry wanted to shirk away from his touch and curl into himself, but Harry was just so confused. Someone was lying – someone he trusted and cared for was attempting to deceive him, and it hurt to know that he could not trust these people he had grown to love.

“You can't believe her, Harry,” Louis was saying. “She's conniving and politicking.”

“And you're not?” Harry howled. “You're all full of shit.”

“What do you need me to do in order to earn your trust?” Louis asked, and it was such an echo of Taylor's earlier words that Harry felt entirely disoriented, the two of them almost warping into the same disgusting monster. They were so similar that Harry wished he could do away with them both.

“I – I just need you to be honest with me,” Harry plead. “Stop playing games and tell me the truth for once.”

Something hardened in Louis' blue eyes and Harry could almost see why an entire court had fallen in love with him once and fought over his affection, why Taylor was willing to gamble with her heart and her position at court just for his pure, undivided attention. There was something magnetic in his gaze, in the way he set his jaw and smirked down at Harry.

It was nothing close to the softness in Zayn's hazel eyes or his deep, emotional declarations, but Harry could see why someone would settle.

“Fine,” Louis said, jutting his chin out defiantly. “You want the truth about something? Zayn's old betrothed is coming to court. She'll be here in a month.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dunnnn
> 
> Also Emily reminded me that I once said this fic was gonna be under 100k why am I always so delusional


	11. Part Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More often than not, Harry knew that whatever was bothering him was really a minor thing, inherently inconsequential, so he would slow himself down, take a deep breath, and try to move past it. But this time Harry could feel himself seething. He was _that_ upset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, again and always, to all of my betas - Rue, Grace, Emily and Fee! And endless thanks to all of you for reading, commenting, and keeping tabs on Tumblr. I'm sorry this is a bit late, but I wrote a longer chapter to make it up to you all!

Harry was _furious_.

Harry didn't think of himself as being particularly quick to anger. He was frequently annoyed with others, certainly, and sometimes his behavior was childish or bratty, but Harry knew that it actually took quite a bit for him to become legitimately upset. More often than not, Harry knew that whatever was bothering him was really a minor thing, inherently inconsequential, so he would slow himself down, take a deep breath, and try to move past it.

But this time Harry could feel himself seething. He was _that_ upset.

Harry was sitting in Louis' quarters and it was still late out, the castle quiet and the night sky inky black. Harry had accompanied Louis back to his rooms following their unplanned meeting in the east wing of the castle and Louis called down to the kitchens for a few dessert items as soon as they arrived. They eyed each other warily while they waited for the food to be sent up, the love bites on Louis' skin standing out in sharp relief underneath the hazy light of his lanterns. Harry could not even remember the last time he had voluntarily been alone with Louis, probably weeks ago. Louis certainly looked much healthier. Maybe his quality time with Liam had been a source of stress relief. But perhaps Harry was laying the blame at the wrong person's feet. Harry should not be surprised that Louis was playing naughty tricks – that was clearly a part of his personality. If Harry should be upset with anyone, it should be Liam, his countryman. His _friend_.

“You did not answer my earlier question,” Harry remarked once a tray of pastries and fruit from dinner finally arrived from the kitchen. Louis placed the food on his bed and quirked an eyebrow at Harry, who hesitantly took a seat beside Louis on the mattress. If Louis wanted to play that game, force he and Harry into close quarters in order to unnerve Harry, then fine. Harry selected a slice of orange before turning back to Louis, popping the sliver of fruit into his mouth. “How long have you been bedding Liam?”

Louis rolled his eyes at Harry before selecting a truly decadent bite of chocolate. “Why does it matter?”

“I hardly see him,” Harry answered with a duck of his eyes. “I was wondering if you were to fault for that.”

“We had a romp here and there when you lot first arrived,” Louis answered, dropping the chocolate on his tongue before opting for a pomegranate. Harry watched as Louis picked at the seeds and ate them, the tips of his fingers stained burgundy with the fruit's juices. The sight was mesmerizing but Harry could not exactly pinpoint why. “Liam is rather incorrigible. But after you and Zayn were wed, he told me that he was interested in pursuing one of the Ladies at court – I honestly could not tell you which – so I turned my sights elsewhere.”

“You accosted me, you mean.”

Louis frowned. “Am I really that repulsive that you always have to throw that out there like I committed some tremendous crime? We were quite close – I do apologize that I got my signals crossed, but I never meant to insult you.”

“I am _married_ ,” Harry replied emphatically. “You are my brother-in-law. I fail to see how coming on to me was not outrageously out of line.”

Louis smirked at Harry but did not offer any commentary to defend himself. Harry understood what Louis' sly smile meant anyway, understood that in effect Louis was insinuating that the offer would continue to remain on the table, Zayn, Eleanor and apparently Liam all be damned.

In a world where everything was so uncertain, there was something oddly reassuring knowing that Louis would continue to behave like a lecherous swine. Harry took a deep breath and looked away from Louis, rubbing at his temple and trying to calm his unsteady heartbeat.

“You did not say why you were leaving Grimshaw's rooms late at night either,” Louis continued, still eating from his pomegranate. “If you really are bedding him, you don't have to worry. I won't tell anyone.”

“I do not know why it is that you think I am, not that it is your business,” Harry stated politely. “But if you _must_ know, I paid him a visit because I was upset from what Lady Swift told me and needed to see a familiar face.”

“You were upset because of those rumors regarding me and Zayn,” Louis answered, his face finally opening up enough that Harry could see behind his smirking bravado. Louis' blue eyes were troubled, but Harry did not have the slightest idea why. Louis turned away from Harry, tugging his bottom lip between his front two teeth and schooling his face into something a little more guarded. “All right then. I understand.”

“I wasn't seeking your understanding.”

“Well, you have it anyway.”

Harry fought against the urge to slap Louis across the face and instead reached for another slice of orange, chewing on it while he commanded, “Well, if you insist upon being utterly useless in every other way, you could at least tell me everything about Zayn's former betrothed.”

Louis turned to Harry with a startled expression on his face. “Harry – ”

“What did you think I came up to your rooms for?” Harry demanded. “A nightcap? To speak with you about Liam's performance in bed? I already know that you are only interested in him as a way to keep up with your gossip. I can only imagine how Liam's lips loosen up after you have your way with him. _So_. Tell me something I don't know.”

Louis shrugged helplessly. “I don't know a whole lot.” Harry just looked at Louis. Harry did _not_ have the patience for this. He was sick of games and manipulation and all of this stupid, silly gossip, and he refused to be treated like a child. “I don't!” Louis continued, flailing his arms in the air as though that was supposed to convince Harry of anything. “Zayn only just told me that she was coming. I hardly even know – ”

“Don't say her name,” Harry interrupted. “I have no interest in knowing such a trivial detail.”

Louis blinked at Harry, mouth open wide. There was a slight gleam in his eye, something that looked a little bit like grudging respect. “I don't want you to be troubled by this, Harry. She's coming soon, but she's literally a nobody as far as court politics are concerned.”

“If she's such a nobody, if her arrival is so unimportant, why is this the first I've heard about it?”

“Well, I only heard about it a few days ago myself – ”

“Again,” Harry said. “If she's such a nobody, why is this the first I've heard about it? Hiding this news kind of makes it seem like it's important, wouldn't you say?”

Louis fell silent, playing with the hem of his chemise nervously. Harry sighed and resisted the urge to throw himself against the bed, bang his feet, and scream into his hands.

“Zayn said he was going to tell you,” Louis began. “I knew he wouldn't. I think he convinced himself that you might become very upset by the news, particularly since things have been tense between you two lately. But it wasn't his doing – the invitation was King Yaser's idea. The King thought it would send a good message throughout the kingdom. No hard feelings between us and her people even though the betrothal did not work out.”

“Why was their betrothal canceled?” Harry asked, picking at the skin around his own cuticles. He found that it was easier to direct his attention there right now, lest he got too upset with Louis and finally give in to the recurring urge to hit him. Knowing Louis, such abuse would probably only make him perversely happy anyway.

Louis lifted a shoulder and continued chewing at his own lip. “There were rumors,” Louis explained. “First that the King was more interested in having Zayn marry a noblewoman, or bringing someone for Zayn from outside of the kingdom entirely, which was, of course, what he ultimately decided upon. Zayn's old betrothed – her family did not bring a whole lot of added value to the throne. It made more sense when the betrothal was first orchestrated and we were still in the throes of war, but as the years passed, her father's power lessened while King Yaser's grew. Then the entirety of her family was attacked and killed and nearly everyone at court thought she engineered it somehow. That was the final straw, I think. King Yaser did not want his son married off to a murderess.”

“So the end of the betrothal had nothing to do with you?” Harry pressed.

“I don't know how many different ways I have to say this,” Louis scowled. “Lady Swift is a strumpet who sowed lies all over court. I never bedded Zayn. We never slept together. We never fucked. You of all people should know that. He was a virgin when he first laid with you – I know he told you as much. If you don't want to believe me, you should at least believe him.”

“You didn't necessarily have to lay with him in order for something to have happened.”

“Oh my fucking gods,” Louis exclaimed. He actually sounded on the verge of tears, his voice cracking as he spoke. “Are you – are you fucking _serious_ right now, Harry? Zayn and I – it was an awful rumor. It was horrific enough the first time around, knowing that half of court thought I would sleep with my own half-brother, but honestly, what would I have gained from tricking him into my bed? The truth that we were related would have come out eventually and I am not that fucking stupid. _It never happened_.”

Louis sniffled and wiped at his cheeks, scoffing at himself when he got a bit of pomegranate juice on his face. He stood to grab a handkerchief and Harry watched Louis walk about his room, feeling strangely detached from the entire display.

Because despite the grand declaration and the tears, Harry didn't believe Louis. Not at all.

  


Harry made his way back to his rooms right as the first inkling of dawn spread itself over the horizon. He and Louis had been talking in circles for hours and Harry was exhausted, making his way to his rooms before collapsing onto the mattress, boots and trousers still on.

When Harry awoke, it was somewhere around breakfast time and Kevin was banging on the doors. Harry felt stiff and strangely congested, almost as though he had been crying all night with a headache rattling around his skull. Harry cracked his shoulders, groaning at the tension in his lower back, and finally pulled his clothes off before making his way to the door on unsteady feet. Harry croaked out a few words to Kevin, enough to say that he was feeling ill and would be staying in bed all day.

“So you will not be up for entertaining any visitors, Your Highness?” Kevin asked, licking over his lips quickly. “I know you have your usual appointments scheduled – ”

Harry interrupted Kevin as a thought sprung into his mind and began taking shape. Harry needed to have a word with Liam anyway and remind Liam what his job actually was at this court. “Actually, Kevin, can you ask Liam to come visit me around noon? His father had an herbal remedy that always used to lift his spirits – perhaps he can tell me the recipe so I can duplicate it here.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Kevin said, sinking into his characteristic bow before setting off down the hallway, the usual obnoxious spring still in his step. Harry sneered at Kevin's back before closing the door and falling back into bed.

  


Harry still had a small headache when he awoke in time for his meeting with Liam at noon. The usual servants helped Harry take a bath and Harry spent an unseemly amount of time trying to get his hair to cooperate before sighing to himself and letting the curls fall around his face. The length was getting a bit unruly now, but Zayn had murmured his appreciation for Harry's wavy locks more than once, so Harry was in no hurry to have it cut.

Harry was only half-dressed when he came back into his main room and realized that Liam was already seated at his tea table. Liam's brow was furrowed and he turned when he heard Harry enter, a frown dancing across his face.

“Where are Nick and Niall?” Liam asked.

“I did not invite them here today,” Harry answered with a shrug, walking over to one of his chests in order to select a top. Clothes seemed to magically appear in Harry's cabinets every few weeks, new leather shoes and chemises made of soft cotton material. Harry selected a blue chemise before pulling it on, walking over to sit next to Liam at his tea table. Harry poked at the offerings available for their meal and smiled at the steaming rabbit stew.

“Were we not going to discuss more of your plans for a baby then?” Liam said. “I assumed that was what we were going to be talking about.”

“Why?” Harry asked, picking up his spoon and slurping at his soup. “So that you could go and tell Louis all about it?”

Liam did not even have the decency to look abashed. He simply screwed his face up further and asked, “ _What_?”

“I was discussing some matters with Nick last night,” Harry continued. “I came out of his room and guess who I saw leaving yours? Disheveled and fully satisfied, no less?”

Liam's jaw was slack. It was obvious that he was absolutely gobsmacked, and normally Harry would feel bad for catching Liam off guard like this, but Harry was also sure that Liam and his big mouth was the reason why half of court had already heard about Harry's intentions to find a son.

“I – Harry – ”

“Nothing to say for yourself?” Harry asked, sucking on his teeth and feeling the same anger from last night make a reappearance. “No excuses to justify the fact that you were sleeping with Prince Zayn's half-brother without even telling me about it?”

“You weren't supposed to find out.”

“Well, I did!” Harry exclaimed. “How stupid do you think I am that I wouldn't? And how stupid are you to think it would be a good idea?”

“It doesn't mean anything,” Liam protested. “I swear it, Harry! It was just a bit of harmless fun.”

“Harmless fun?” Harry repeated. “You know that he is only interested in you in order to get more information about me. And I'm sure you made it easy enough – all he had to do was spread his legs and you were blurting everything he ever needed to know.”

“No, of course not! And Louis' not like that – ”

“He only likes you because of what you mean to me,” Harry interjected. “Do you know how many other members of this court he's fucked in his quest for power?”

Liam shook his head vehemently. “He's not been with anyone else – he told me. He hasn't even been sleeping with Lady Calder.”

“Oh, and what? Did he tell you that if you stopped pursuing Lady Smith that he would end his engagement to Lady Calder?”

Liam blanched and Harry could not believe that he even knew someone so ridiculously dense.

“You're not to sleep with Louis again,” Harry continued softly. “And I hate to command you on something so private – I hate to command you on anything, really. But you have made my own private matters public knowledge.”

“I didn't tell him anything about you, Harry,” Liam said, turning wet, watery eyes Harry's way. “You have to believe me. I would never – ”

“I don't believe you,” Harry interrupted. And Liam didn't really have anything to say in response to that.

Harry let Liam eat the rest of his stew before dismissing him.

  


A few hours later, Kevin knocked at Harry's door and let Harry know that Zayn requested Harry's presence in his quarters, if Harry was up for it, of course. Harry rolled his eyes and closed the book he was reading, taking another bath before making his way to Zayn's rooms.

They fucked – quickly, messily, Harry not even making it more than five steps through the door before Zayn was undressing him. Zayn's movements were jerky and he seemed determined but also distracted. Perhaps it was a bad day in the realm of foreign affairs. Harry carded his fingers through Zayn's hair while Zayn took Harry in his mouth and Harry angled his hips and thrust down Zayn's throat, trying not to think about the insinuation that Zayn might have once done this with –

“Where were you today?” Zayn asked, later, after Harry had come down Zayn's throat and hauled Zayn to his feet, wrapping his fingers around Zayn's cock and stroking him methodically until Harry's fingers were wet and sticky with Zayn's come.

“I wasn't feeling well,” Harry answered. They were in Zayn's bed, legs wrapped around each other, Harry resting against Zayn's chest while Zayn twirled patterns against Harry's scalp. Typically, Harry could not think of any other place he would prefer to be, but today Harry just felt tired. They both seemed preoccupied, lying together but minds clearly elsewhere.

“Oh,” Zayn said, face falling a little. “What were you going to do tomorrow, then?”

“Go down to the marketplace, perhaps,” Harry answered with a tiny lift of his shoulders. Harry did not get to go to the markets in the city square very often, but he always enjoyed the trips when he was able to orchestrate them. There were just so many vendors to explore, and Harry always preferred picking up his dried fruits from actual farmers. It helped remind him how fortunate he was, that food did not always magically appear from castle kitchens.

Zayn made a small, thoughtful face, tapping at his chin while his eyes went upward. “May I accompany you?” Zayn finally asked, squeezing Harry's shoulder. When Harry turned, Zayn's face was lit up with a hopeful lopsided smile. “I – I haven't been to the marketplace in a long time. It would be nice to go there with you.”

Harry bit at his lip and nodded. Perhaps a private excursion would help with this distance between them, all of the tiptoeing around each other. “Yes. I – that would be nice.”

“That's settled then,” Zayn said, his smile blooming and spreading across his face. “I'll cancel my appointments and we'll spend the day together?”

“Yes, of course,” Harry answered. Zayn leaned over, cupping his hands over the sides of Harry's face before kissing him, soft and quick. The taste of Harry's release was still heavy on Zayn's tongue. Harry's eyes fluttered close as he pressed forward again, deepening the kiss slightly, but Zayn pulled away with a chuckle, kissing against Harry's hairline before resuming his earlier play with Harry's hair.

  


The following morning, Harry and Zayn ventured down to the courtyard after a lazy breakfast and unhurried time together in bed. A few soldiers had assembled a carriage to take them to the city square, and the vehicle sat gleaming and ostentatious underneath the hazy sunlight. Harry bristled at the added security – typically when Harry visited the marketplace, he was accompanied by either Kevin or Liam, and they made the journey entirely by foot. It was only about a mile, if that. Harry just hated all of the pretense – the Malik family insignia on the side of carriage and soldiers huddled about to protect Harry from what were truly friendly vendors. Sometimes Harry felt like all of it drew too much attention when he would much rather have a quiet day. It wasn't like the people did not know who Harry was either way – by virtue of his dress and his distinctive curly hair it was always apparent that Harry was indeed the young Prince Consort – but sometimes it was nice to pretend as though Harry wasn't a royal. As though his life was not carefully coordinated, details predetermined and preselected.

Zayn appeared to be in good spirits, though, and he guided Harry into the carriage with a warm hand at the small of Harry's back. Zayn also pulled Harry's hands into his lap the minute they were both seated, smiling warm as they took off on the short drive into the city square.

It was now firmly winter in Jinan, which, as far as Harry could tell, simply meant that it rained on occasion and sometimes approached freezing temperatures at night. But it did not snow, and the daylight hours were pleasant, occasionally brisk. Today was another such day – mild, sunny. It had rained a bit overnight, the ground still a little damp, but it was nothing at all like what Harry was accustomed to in Holmes. Harry thought briefly, suddenly, of his mother and how much she would have appreciated such weather during the winter before clamping down on his feelings. It would do no good to become upset over his mother now, not when he was so resolved to have a good day with Zayn.

As usual, the marketplace was bustling when they arrived. The handful of soldiers supervising this excursion helped Zayn and Harry exit the carriage, and there was a brief stir once people realized that the Prince and his husband had come for a visit, people rushing over for the opportunity to see the two of them together. Harry blindly reached for Zayn's hand and squeezed his palm, thinking about all of the times the two of them had been out in public. They had traveled to and from vacation homes quite frequently, but it was truly rare for the average city folk to see Zayn and Harry. Harry knew that he would have to appear fond and loving lest rumors of a rift continue to plague their marriage.

Zayn was similarly playing up his affection under the heavy scrutiny of the marketplace attendees, rubbing his hands over Harry's back and ducking in close in order to whisper nonsensical things in Harry's ear that still made Harry's body tense with anticipation. Harry felt like the worst sort of pretender, with all of his bottled up frustration with Zayn and his current situation at court, but helpless and still pliable under Zayn's ministrations, desperate for any bit of affection Zayn showed him. Harry was tired of it – tired of how easily he always gave into Zayn, tired of his own contradictory behavior.

The soldiers created a buffer around Harry and Zayn, granting the two boys the pretense of privacy and separating them from the rest of the marketplace shoppers. Harry and Zayn meandered around the stalls, smiling at the awed farmers and craftsmen hawking their fares. Harry pulled Zayn close to him as they walked over to an older, tanned woman selling candles. Harry relished in the scent of spicy oils that clung to Zayn's collarbones before blindly blurting, “So when were you going to tell me about your former betrothed coming to court?”

Harry watched as Zayn's smile fell. Even though Harry had not planned the question at all, Harry still felt something close to satisfaction itch its way underneath his skin.

“Who told you about that?” Zayn asked, turning towards Harry sharply.

Harry quirked an eyebrow. “Does it matter? It should have been you.”

Zayn seemed momentarily at a loss for words, blinking up at Harry and gaping at him. Harry smiled glibly at Zayn in return, breaking away to stop at the woman selling candles. Harry had purchased from her before and smiled before picking up a blue one and holding it up to his nose.

Zayn was at Harry's side in another moment, wrapping his arms around Harry's waist. To anyone else, Harry was sure it looked soft and affectionate, but Zayn's grip was too tight, right on this side of uncomfortable where his fingertips were digging into the meat of Harry's hips.

Zayn smiled at the woman as well before hissing in Harry's ear, “Tell me who told you.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek before reaching into his pocket to pay for the candle. Zayn batted Harry's hand away before handing over two of his own gold coins, grinning large and artificially at the woman who began thanking the two of them profusely. Zayn began steering Harry over to a fruit vendor when Harry whispered, “I'm not doing this with you right now.”

“You're the one who brought it up so of course we're doing this right now,” Zayn countered. “Just tell me. Was it Louis?”

“We are not having a conversation about Louis.” Zayn and Louis' relationship was honestly the last conversation Harry wanted to broach. Harry was not sure if he was capable of _ever_ bringing up all of his unanswered questions with Zayn directly.

“Why not?” Zayn insisted. “Is it because he's the one who told you?”

“Zayn, you're being ridiculous,” Harry muttered, grinning again when they came to the fruit vendor. Harry picked up a persimmon and squeezed it, sighing under his breath when Zayn pulled out coins to pay for Harry's purchases again. Harry did like being pampered, of course he did, but it was grating on his nerves that Zayn seemed more interested in buying Harry's cooperation than fucking talking to him. “This is not a conversation about anyone else. I just want to know why you couldn't tell me that she was coming.”

“Of course this is a conversation about someone else,” Zayn retorted. “You always go behind my back to talk to Louis – ”

“Are you _serious_?” Harry asked. “I don't go behind your back and do anything with Louis. I've told you this over and over again.”

Zayn pulled a face that clearly demonstrated that he was far from convinced. Harry was vaguely amazed that just about any conversation about Zayn not trusting Harry with information could be turned into Harry sleeping with Louis, or whatever it was that Zayn thought Harry and Louis got up to in all of Harry's copious spare time, as though Harry didn't spend the majority of his day with Kevin, who undoubtedly reported on his activities to Zayn, or lying on his back while Zayn worked him open.

“How would you feel if I accused you of something like this every few months, I wonder,” Harry mumbled, switching languages entirely. Harry spoke almost exclusively to Zayn in Nia now that he was comfortable enough, but it wasn't like Zayn couldn't understand Harry's mother tongue at all. Plus the farmer was regarding them both with interest, clearly trying to listen in on their whispered conversation. “All of this almost makes me feel like you're the one hiding something.”

“What?” Zayn sputtered, thankfully abandoning Nia as well. “You think I'm having an affair?”

“You seem very preoccupied with the idea that I might be having one,” Harry answered haughtily. “It could be a classic case of deflection.”

“You're being ridiculous.”

“Aren't you?” Harry spat. “Zayn, please. Just – just talk to me. Why can't you ever just tell me things?”

Zayn shook his head violently and accepted the persimmons from the farmer with another forced smile, the one that always looked far more like a grimace. Harry could imagine all of the rumors that would swirl about court after this brief excursion – Princes Harry and Zayn can't even go to the marketplace without quarreling. Perhaps Harry would end up retreating to his own estate on the coast. Perhaps they wouldn't even make it to their first anniversary gala. Perhaps the union that had once seemed so perfect was actually a mistake.

Harry and Zayn spent the rest of their time in the marketplace locked in an uneasy silence.

  


Harry and Zayn did not see each other much over the next few days. Harry did not particularly mind, even though he knew their distance was most certainly a source of speculation. Harry was also unsure whether he cared enough to even try and change their current situation. Harry was just so _tired_ – tired that Zayn would rather avoid Harry than talk to him, tired of hearing rumors, and tired that things had gotten so unsteady between he and Zayn in the first place. So Harry found solace in his usual activities – riding about in the courtyard, shopping at the marketplace, harassing Professor Sheeran at the university – and in this manner he kept himself occupied while the castle buzzed in preparation for an upcoming winter holiday.

  


Harry was extremely surprised when he received an invitation to join Queen Trisha for breakfast a week or so after Harry and Zayn's disastrous marketplace visit. When Harry first arrived at court, he spent a fair amount of time with the Queen and the Princesses, but as the months wore on, Harry saw the Queen less and less frequently. Harry was loathe to admit it, but Harry had grown a bit terrified of the Queen as time passed, partially because she was such an imposing figure, and partly because of all of the anecdotes Harry had heard about her from other members of court. The last thing Harry wanted to do was take breakfast with the Queen, not when Harry still couldn't sort through his own feelings regarding her son and just about everyone tangentially related to the royal family. However, Harry knew there was no way he could possibly decline the invitation, so he canceled his own plans with Niall and Nick and instead mentally prepared himself for time alone with the Queen.

Queen Trisha's private quarters were at the very top of the castle and she had an entire wing to herself. Naturally, she also shared a resting space with King Yaser, but the rooms furnished for her and her Ladies were something to behold. Wide floor-to-ceiling windows, corners filled with lush greenery, and room after room decorated with priceless furnishings from all over the world – it made even Zayn's rooms feel drab in comparison. Harry felt under-dressed just walking into her tea room, taking a seat at a table encrusted with jewels and featuring artwork of a long-forgotten warrior on the surface.

Queen Trisha took a seat before Harry, smiling at him warmly as she did so. She was dressed simply in a long purple dress and a white shawl that she had wrapped about her head and shoulders, but Harry's sight latched onto the wedding ring glittering on her left ring finger. Queen Trisha had several wedding rings that she alternated through, but the sheer size of this particular diamond almost seemed to weigh her finger down. Harry's mind boggled at the idea. Harry could sometimes forget about the Malik family's wealth when he was with Zayn, even though reminders of it existed everywhere Harry looked. But sitting in front of the Queen, there was no forgetting. Her wealth and power was etched into every line on her face, nestled into the very calcium of her bones. Queen Trisha could have personally bought and sold Holmes five times over and not even batted an eyelash. For not the first time, Harry wondered how much money her and King Yaser threw at his parents before Queen Anne agreed to let Harry go abroad. Harry hoped his mother asked for quite the fortune.

“It really is quite lovely to see you, Harry, dear,” Queen Trisha said, gesturing at Harry to begin eating the food spread out in front of them. Even the selection was better than what the kitchens sent up to Harry and Zayn, and it wasn't like Zayn and Harry were surviving off scraps – cakes, slices of pie, warm rolls, decadent honey and large slabs of chocolate. “I have been so glad to see you settle in. How has everyone been treating you?”

“Quite well, Your Highness,” Harry answered, picking up a roll and eying the honey. There was a vendor at the marketplace that was renowned for her honey, and Harry wondered if it was the same sort. “Everyone has been tremendously kind. I am forever grateful for you and King Yaser's generosity and Prince Zayn's affection.”

“And he has been treating you well?” Queen Trisha asked, her eyes sharp even as she selected a small slice of cake. “My son?”

Harry made a low, baffled noise even as he wondered how much gossip had already made its way back to Queen Trisha's ears. She had always seemed above such matters, but Taylor had been right about one thing – gossip was the most important form of currency in this court. “Of course, Your Highness.”

“Even in the wake of all of the devastating news that came to us from Holmes?” Queen Trisha pressed. “Zayn cares, of course he does, but sometimes he has difficulty expressing how he really feels. I just want to guarantee that you are not feeling neglected, particularly now that my husband is looking to transfer the bulk of daily reign over to Zayn. Your comfort and happiness has always been our main priority, but this has taken on a greater urgency in light of your mother's passing.”

Queen Trisha certainly knew how to speak like a diplomat, discussing Harry's mother with the right amount of sympathy and delicateness. It was also clear to Harry that the Queen knew her son very, very well. “I am comfortable and I am happy,” Harry answered, doing his best not to wring his hands in his lap under the Queen's sharp assessment. “I appreciated the time Zayn made for the two of us when I first heard about my mother and all of the turmoil in Holmes. I needed his attention then.”

“And now?”

Harry bit at his lip. “How do you mean, Your Highness?”

“I hear things, love,” Queen Trisha said gently. “Not everything, naturally, but the things I need to know do eventually find their way back to me. Zayn has approached me, personally, and expressed his frustration. He does not think you are content and asked that I speak with you.”

Harry did not want to discuss every grievance within his relationship and he certainly did not want to do it with his husband's mother, even though she might be the one capable of truly remedying things. Harry also felt that perhaps Zayn should stop whining about him to other people and come speak with Harry directly, but Harry was not going to hold his breath. “Every relationship has its bumps and bruises,” Harry finally settled upon saying. “We are not any different.”

“But that is all it is? Bumps and bruises?”

“I certainly think so.”

“Prince Zayn worries that you do not trust him,” Queen Trisha continued. “He fears that you confide in others instead of in him.”

Harry wanted to scream at Zayn's hypocrisy. Zayn was the one who couldn't talk to Harry about something until it was as good as public knowledge. “Is that so?” Harry said, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I have the same concerns with him.”

“Do you, now?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Harry replied promptly. “I did not know about the upcoming coronation for months. I also did not know about his former betrothed coming to court until a few nights ago.”

Shock danced across Queen Trisha's face before she schooled her expression into something softer. “Zayn did not tell you about the Edwards girl's arrival?”

Harry seethed but bit his tongue. Harry had not been lying when he told Louis that he did not want to know Zayn's former betrothed's name. It was easier to hate someone when they were not a real person, when they were an unnamed specter. “No, I found out from another member of court. And when I pressed Zayn on it, he demanded to know who had told me.”

Queen Trisha took a deep breath. “I will speak to Zayn about this,” she finally murmured. “I understand that he wanted to be the one to inform you, but he had weeks to do so.”

Harry pursed his lips and tried not to let Queen Trisha's words echo in his ears. _Weeks_? Zayn had been keeping news this important from Harry for _weeks_?

“Is that all that has been troubling you, dear?” Queen Trisha said, taking small, dainty bites of her cake and peering at Harry. She really was quite warm and caring when Harry stripped away everything else – a woman with long, brown hair and the same beautiful smile as her son. Harry missed his own mother, ached with the loss, but Queen Trisha was here, and she had sworn to look after Harry when she accepted Harry into her kingdom. Perhaps Harry should take advantage of that promise.

“I am not sure what other rumors you have heard,” Harry said, selecting a piece of chocolate instead of looking up to match the Queen's eyes. “But I know there has been gossip about me. And – and a baby.”

The Queen hesitated before speaking. “I have heard that you were interested in having a child, yes,” she answered. “I spoke to Zayn about it and he seemed to think it was a rumor without any merit. I should have asked whether he had spoken about it to you directly, but now I know better.” The Queen pursed her lips and paused before admitting, “I would certainly not fault you if you are indeed interested in having a child.”

Harry looked up at the Queen and clearly stated. “I am.”

“It's not just because you are missing your mother, love?”

Harry shook his head. “I miss her, but I've wanted a child for months.”

Harry took solace in recognizing that the Queen would have no way of knowing whether this was true or not. She would have to accept Harry's word, and why wouldn't she? The topic would most certainly come up again in the middle of a private conversation between her and Zayn, and she could repeat what Harry had said – that it had been Harry's desire for a very long time – and Zayn would have to give the idea some thought because _even his mother_ could not fault Harry for wanting this, for wanting a baby.

“Harry, there are very specific traditions that our kingdom abides by when two Princes want a child,” Queen Trisha said, her tone becoming more business-like. “That is not to say that we cannot expedite the process if that is truly your and Zayn's desire. But typically two royals do not begin the search for an heir until two years into their reign.”  
“And how does that process work?”

“The Princes can choose their ideal method of receiving a child – whether that be by surrogacy or adoption. Prince Faiz was deeply wedded to the idea of choosing an heir by his merits, same as he was selected to rule by his aunt, so he and his husband opted for an adoption. There was a large call throughout the kingdom, and Prince Faiz and his husband visited many orphanages before finally selecting an heir – my grandfather.”

“It is acceptable that the future ruler might not be directly of the Malik bloodline then?” Harry clarified. It would have been unfathomable in Holmes for Harry to adopt. Blood always triumphed, and if Harry had found himself unable to produce a son or daughter, he would have had to select one of Gemma's children to carry on the bloodline.

“Why yes, of course,” Queen Trisha exclaimed. “Naturally, there were some at court who were leery of my grandfather when he first assumed the throne, but my grandfather was, without a doubt, the best ruler we ever had.”

Harry and Queen Trisha both seemed to silently agree not to bring up the fact that Queen Trisha's grandfather was also the ruler who had initiated the war between their two kingdoms. The war which ultimately brought Harry to Zayn's shores. Harry wondered if Queen Trisha's grandfather had ever anticipated having a son of Holmes raise a Malik, a future King. Harry hoped the man was rolling around in his grave at the thought.

  


Harry was buoyed after his meeting with Queen Trisha. He felt as though things were finally looking up for him again and was patting himself on the back for setting certain plans in motion – and without any of the other boys' help nonetheless. Harry had confronted Liam and put an end to that nonsense between Liam and Louis. He had scolded Zayn about keeping secrets and even got Zayn's own mother to agree that such behavior was disrespectful. And on top of that, Harry had planted the seed of finding an heir with Queen Trisha. Harry grinned to himself as he made his way back to his rooms. He really _could_ be devious when he wanted to be – needed to be.

Harry was in such a good mood that he decided to push his luck a little bit further, asking Kevin to check and see if Louis would be free for dinner that night. Kevin pulled a face, probably thinking about the scolding he would get from Prince Zayn for orchestrating a meeting between the two boys, but he did as instructed, returning half an hour later to say that Louis was indeed free, but would prefer if Harry would come down to his quarters instead of the other way around. Harry shrugged and accepted.

Which was how Harry ended up in Louis' room, propped up on Louis' bed and trying not to shiver underneath Louis' curious gaze. Harry wondered why it was that he always ended up on Louis' mattress considering the perfectly good chaise Louis had in his main bedroom.

“I have a favor to ask,” Harry said after they had already made their way through the standard niceties, fluffing the pillows just so he could keep his hands occupied. Harry still could not tell whether Louis' attraction was genuine or put on, but Harry could play the game either way. Harry bolstered his confidence by reminding himself that he used to do this all the time, especially when his favorite ambassadors were visiting court and Harry desired new articles of clothing – biting his lips so they looked plump and accommodating, wearing low-slung tops and dropping the timbre in his voice. Harry did not like occupying the role of the vapid seducer, but he did not like half of the things he did anymore, and this entire scheme was all about engaging in activities that one would otherwise find low or distasteful.

“Name it,” Louis answered, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes leery where they met Harry's own.

“I want you to guarantee that Zayn's formerly betrothed – that Edwards girl – doesn't come to court,” Harry answered promptly. “I don't want her here.”

“You could ban her yourself,” Louis pointed out. “I don't think anyone would fault you, really.”

Harry shook his head. “I don't want to get on King Yaser's bad side and I especially _don't_ want Zayn to know. I would prefer that this entire matter be handled discreetly.”

“Then why ask me?”

“You have dragons,” Harry said. “You have dragons, connections, wealth, and the uncanny ability to always make things go your way.”

That was not even mentioning everything Taylor had told Harry about Louis. Harry wasn't sure whether or not Louis was still in communication with a magician or if that part of Taylor's tale was even true, but Harry was undoubtedly sure that if anyone could execute Harry's will, it would be Louis.

“I do what I can. Except with you,” Louis retorted, quirking his eyebrow and letting his gaze linger over the length of Harry's legs.

Harry suddenly remembered how much he had once liked Louis, how they had laid together in a bed only a day away from the capital. How Harry had contemplated pushing the moment, pursuing someone like Louis just for a spot of fun. But so much had changed in the interim, in between meeting Zayn and falling in love with him and asking Louis for a favor now.

“But fine,” Louis continued, shrugging his shoulder. “Whatever. I can do it – on my terms, of course.”

“Name them and I'll see what I can do.”

“Make Liam drop those girls of his,” Louis answered quickly. “Convince him that he should only be with me.”

Harry sneered. “But what about you and Eleanor? It's a bit unfair to ask a man for monogamy when you can't provide it yourself, don't you think?”

“Don't question the terms,” Louis replied airily. “Unless you would rather I asked for a night with you?”

Harry wanted to remind Louis that Harry was not, in fact, a prostitute, but Louis would probably smirk and Harry did not need the reminder that his parents essentially sold him so they wouldn't lose a war. It wasn't prostitution, per se, but close enough to make Harry feel a little sordid when he thought about it too hard. “You wouldn't know what to do with me if you had the chance,” Harry countered instead.

“What? You think my brother doesn't talk to me about what you like?” Louis asked, his blue eyes dark and heavy-lidded. “Who do you think it was that suggested that he get you wet with his tongue? Liam likes it so much – I assumed as another Holmes boy you wouldn't be much different.”

Harry felt himself blanch and he curled his fists in Louis' blankets. Harry wondered if that's what Louis and Zayn were talking about all of the times Harry saw the two boys riding together, heads bent conspiratorially – discussing how Harry liked getting his hair pulled. How Harry cried out in surprise the first time Zayn put his tongue _there_. Harry knew that people talked, he had had similar cheeky discussions with Nick, Niall, and Liam about Zayn's preferences, but it was something else entirely realizing that _Louis_ knew these things about him, was giving Zayn ideas and feedback as though he was actually some sort of impartial observer, just a friend – a brother – voicing his thoughts.

“Did you want anything else then?” Harry asked, voice shaking. “Or was harassing me enough for today?”

“I'm sure I can think of something,” Louis answered with a grin. “But I will fulfill your wishes, don't you worry your pretty little head. I don't particularly want her here either. She'll fuck up my own plans.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, pushing himself up from Louis' bed and standing. “If you don't need anything else – ?”

“No, you can certainly go,” Louis replied. “Thank you for blessing me with your company.”

Harry nodded uncertainly and made his way to the door. Louis chewed the inside of his cheek before making a soft noise, grabbing at Harry's arm. For a brief moment, Harry feared that Louis would press him against the door, attempt to kiss him. But instead Louis smiled mischievously.

“Zayn has letters from his betrothed hidden in his room,” Louis confided. “I can't be entirely sure where they are stowed now, but I thought you should know.”

“Thanks,” Harry replied dazedly, and he made his way out of Louis' quarters, wondering what he would've done if Louis _had_ leaned in and stolen a kiss.

  


It was another few days before Harry found the courage to speak directly to Zayn again. It took that long for Harry to come up with his next step.

Kevin let Harry into Zayn's rooms a little after dinner started in the main dining hall and Harry released a quiet breath he did not know he had been holding in. Harry had told Kevin that it was part of a surprise – something romantic to make the Prince forgive him. It would have been ridiculous for Kevin to bar his entry, but Harry had experienced a moment of panic nonetheless, as though Kevin had the authority to keep Harry from Zayn's quarters. Once Harry was inside the familiar space, Harry forced a chuckle and told himself he had been silly. Paranoid, even.

Harry called up several servants to help him draw a bath, and afterward Harry returned to Zayn's main rooms, feeling warm and expectant. He did not redress but instead settled on the bed, going through Zayn's bedside table while also searching for Zayn's stash of oils. Harry scanned the room as he lazily fingered himself, wondering where, if anywhere, Zayn would hide letters from a former betrothed, from someone Louis assured Harry was not a factor, but who Louis also did not want at court and was allegedly a murderess. There were so many places to stash away trinkets if one was determined enough.

It was another half an hour or so before Zayn arrived, pushing through the doorway and coming to a full stop when he caught sight of Harry flushed and spread across the bed. Zayn grinned, large and excited, and closed the door with the ball of his foot, biting at his lip and letting his eyes linger over Harry's bare skin.

“I was not expecting to see you here,” Zayn remarked, sauntering to the side of the bed. He looked like a treat himself – his dark hair long and curling against his neck, the sleeves of his chemise rolled up to expose the black, swirling designs etched into his skin. “To what do I owe this surprise?”

“No special occasion,” Harry answered, throwing his head back against the pillows and tilting his body toward Zayn. Harry's cock had been flagging in his boredom, but it was thickening again just by virtue of Zayn's eager gaze. “I have simply tired of fighting with you and I don't want to quarrel over someone I don't even know.” Harry's words were hardly more than a coo by this point and Harry could tell that he had Zayn right where Harry wanted him – pliable, amenable, desperate. Harry wanted Zayn the same way Zayn always had him, lustful and therefore easy to manipulate. “I just wanted you to tell me, Zayn,” Harry added, hoping that he wasn't laying it on too thick. “You know how important you are to me and when you don't tell me things, I assume that means I'm not important to you.”

“I'm sorry, love,” Zayn said, running hot fingers along the length of Harry's jaw. “You're _so_ important. I shouldn't have yelled at you or accused you of anything. It – it was wrong of me.”

“We'll make it up to each other,” Harry murmured, voice low and sultry. Zayn's eyes dropped to Harry's mouth and Harry tried not to smirk at how easy this was. “I can apologize first. You can use my mouth.”

Zayn swore underneath his breath and Harry let himself grin, grabbing Zayn's wrist where it was still tracing Harry's jaw and swirling his tongue around the tip of Zayn's index finger.

“And what do you want?” Zayn asked, his voice trembling through the last word when Harry sucked Zayn's finger down to the second knuckle, pulling off with a loud pop. “How shall I apologize to you?”

“I want you to fuck me,” Harry said, biting his bottom lip and watching how Zayn honed in on the action. “Deep. And slow.”

Zayn nodded, shucking his clothes off in quick, jerky motions. “Anything you want,” Zayn replied earnestly, the words sounding almost like a chant. Harry wondered why Zayn was so hopeless for it, curious if it was the same reason why Zayn had fucked Harry hurriedly, distractedly the week before. “Anything you want, Harry.”  
Zayn was naked in almost the blink of an eye, skin still golden brown and beautiful under the lanterns' dim glow. Harry wanted to drink him in and Harry was pleased to know that he could, grabbing Zayn by the waist and hauling him in to lay on the bed beside Harry. Harry twisted his fingers through Zayn's hair, tugging at the root and brushing his lips against Zayn's, not even enough to be a kiss. Zayn chased after Harry's mouth, eyes already closed, but Harry shook his head and pulled back, smiling at Zayn's frustrated groan.

“Harry,” Zayn pleaded and Harry giggled before leaning in completely, pressing his lips against Zayn's chastely. Every time Zayn tried to deepen the kiss with thrusts of his tongue Harry pulled away, chuckling and delighting in Zayn's irritation. Zayn nipped at Harry's bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth, and Harry countered by wrapping his hands around Zayn's cock where it was half-hard against Harry's hip, squeezing the base and feeling Zayn's pulse through the hot skin. Zayn grunted, releasing Harry's lip, and Harry licked over his mouth before latching onto Zayn's neck, running his tongue over the salty skin and sucking it into his mouth. Harry wanted to bruise, wanted everyone in the morning to know exactly what they were up to the night before.

Harry teased down the length of Zayn's body, reacquainting himself with the taste of Zayn's skin and the way Zayn's tattoos felt against his tongue. Zayn always seemed so surprised when Harry wrapped his lips around Zayn's nipples and gave them a playful tug, would squeeze his eyes shut and huff out uneven breaths while his cock hardened further. Zayn was wet and leaking by the time Harry licked over the tip, brushing hair out of his eyes in order to blink doe-like up at Zayn.

“Don't come,” Harry warned, licking broadly up the underside of Zayn's cock. Zayn nodded, sweat causing his hair to stick to the side of his face, and Harry beamed before swallowing around Zayn's length entirely, not stopping until he felt the head of Zayn's cock nudge against his throat.

Zayn cursed and immediately scrambled his hands to clutch Harry's hair. Harry blinked up again and Zayn had his eyes squeezed shut while he chewed his bottom lip desperately. It was a good look for Zayn, his stomach jumping as he tried not to barrel his cock down Harry's throat.

Harry sucked Zayn slow, closing his own eyes as he tried to make this earth-shatteringly good. Harry jerked what he couldn't swallow, getting the entirety of Zayn's length slick with spit and precome. And Harry knew that he was doing well for himself because Zayn was holding onto Harry's hair tight, like he couldn't do anything else but keep Harry there, keep Harry sucking him and wrestling those sweet, melodic moans out of Zayn's mouth.

“I'm gonna – Harry – ”

Harry pulled off, strings of spit connecting him to Zayn's cock. Zayn whimpered at the loss of suction but Harry ignored him, reaching over to Zayn's bedside table to grab the oil he had been using earlier.

“Do you think you could even handle preparing me right now?” Harry asked cheekily, watching as Zayn tried to even out his breath. There were red splotches on Zayn's collarbones that Harry wanted to bite, so Harry gave into the urge, nipping against Zayn's chest and laughing at the way Zayn's cock jumped at the minor jolt of pain.

“I – I wanna watch you do it,” Zayn said, sitting up against the bed and holding his cock around the base. “Can I?”

“Of course, love,” Harry answered, opening the vial and coating his fingers liberally. “Although it won't take me long. I got myself ready before you came back from dinner.” Harry winked before taking a moment to determine how he best wanted to do this. Harry ultimately settled for lying on his back, his head at the foot of the bed, so that Zayn could get the best view. Harry brought his clean hand to tease at his nipples while skittering the other one down to rub against his hole, light teasing motions that made Zayn's breath hitch while he watched. Harry sank two fingers into himself without preamble, crooking them and pressing in deep. Harry swore, flexing his feet as he fucked himself, and felt precome drip out of the tip of his cock.

“You got ready while I was at dinner?” Zayn asked a few beats later, his words leaving his mouth all in a rush.

“Yeah,” Harry answered. “Got three fingers in just playing around.”

Zayn whined, high and desperate, and he crowded over Harry, his eyes dark and searching. Harry licked his lips even as he still pumped into himself, leaning up to steal a kiss. Zayn bent down, meeting Harry's lips with his own, and he licked into Harry's mouth with a low moan. Harry closed his eyes, relaxing against the press of Zayn's mouth while Harry stilled his own motions, savoring the sensation of his fingers filling him up while Zayn licked the taste of his own precome out of Harry's mouth.

Zayn finally pulled away from sucking on Harry's tongue to nudge his nose against Harry's cheek, murmuring, “Let me feel you.” Harry pulled his fingers out and watched as Zayn slicked himself up with oil, his cock so hard it was most certainly uncomfortable. And then Zayn was nudging against Harry, pressing in slow while Harry sighed, wrapping his legs against Zayn's waist and drawing him in closer.

Zayn fucked Harry exactly as Harry requested – deep and slow. Zayn rolled his hips while Harry pressed his feet against the meat of Zayn's ass, digging his fingernails into Zayn's shoulders and scratching the skin. Harry wanted Zayn to feel this the next day, wanted Zayn to absentmindedly run his fingers against raised skin and suddenly remember Harry sweaty and hard underneath him. Wanted Zayn to flush and fall into a daydream, suddenly forgetting the answer to a question or how to speak entirely.

Harry was almost mindless with his desire, chanting, “More, more, more,” as Zayn kept a torturous pace. Zayn came first, pressing a hand against Harry's chest and throwing his head back as he spilled warm inside of Harry, his release dripping in between Harry's thighs.

Zayn was shaking, braced over Harry but looking about two seconds from passing out, when Harry reached down and began to jerk himself, dry and almost too rough. But the knowledge that Zayn was still inside of him was enough and Harry's orgasm took him almost silently, Harry squeezing his eyes shut as he emptied over his fist and across Zayn's stomach.

Zayn pulled out delicately and Harry made himself stand on unsteady feet, padding around the side of Zayn's bed in order to grab a cloth. Harry cleaned his own hand and thighs before wiping off Zayn's stomach, returning Zayn's sleepy, satisfied smile.

And like that, Zayn crawled underneath his blanket and fell asleep. Harry pulled on his trousers and watched Zayn's breath even out, ignoring the sensation of Zayn's come still dripping from inside of him in order to concentrate on more important things.

Because Harry was going to quickly peruse through Zayn's belongings, ideally find nothing of note, and then he could go back to Louis in the morning and call his bluff.

Harry was at a loss as to where he could even begin. There weren't a lot of obvious hiding places in Zayn's rooms. Considering the fact that Zayn was a royal with wealth beyond measure, his quarters were rather sparse. A canopy bed, beside tables, his tea table and a complimentary set of chairs. A chaise and several cabinets, and then a door leading toward his study, which he hardly even utilized.

Harry looked through the study first, used cloth still in hand, but it was immaculately clean. Zayn did not leave anything of note there, just manuscripts, spare inkwells, and a few half-finished drawings.

Harry made his way back to Zayn's main room and began looking about the papers Zayn had left on top of his tea table. None of them appeared too important, either, so Harry abandoned the dirty cloth there and shifted over to Zayn's dressers, looking through articles of clothing and finding nothing particularly interesting besides several pieces of fine jewelry wrapped up in robes. Harry held the necklaces and rings in his hands and hoped they were all gifts to celebrate their upcoming wedding anniversary before placing them back where he found them.

Harry was almost ready to begin laughing at himself for even believing Louis, for putting his faith in a brother-in-law instead of in his husband, when Harry stepped over a creaky floorboard by Zayn's side of the bed and nearly had a heart attack.

Because Harry never kept a secret hiding space underneath his bed, but he remembered how Liam stored his most prized possessions under loose flooring in Holmes. Harry had stumbled upon it almost the same way, Liam flushing red before showing Harry the bronze ring from his grandfather and an embroidered handkerchief from his mother.

Harry knelt to the floor and pressed against the creaky wood with the palm of his hand, peeking up quickly to look at Zayn. Zayn was still completely out, clearly recuperating from the long day and his after-dinner activities. Harry held his breath while he wriggled his fingers underneath the loose bit of wood, removing the floorboard almost laughably easily. And there, nestled underneath the ground, was a tiny blue treasure chest, the type one gives to a child. It did not even include a lock.

Harry darted another quick glance to look at Zayn's slumbering form before standing and grabbing one of Zayn's candles. Harry placed the candle in Zayn's study before walking back to the main bedroom to take the treasure chest.

Harry settled at Zayn's desk and spent a few moments contemplating the treasure chest. Hopefully there were only trinkets in there. Hopefully Harry had nothing to worry about and he was just being silly. But a small, insistent voice in Harry's head told Harry to stop being so stupid and naive, told Harry to prepare himself for what he was going to see. Because after this, there would be no going back.

Harry opened the treasure chest and the box creaked open ominously. Inside were several pieces of parchment. Harry picked up the first one, unfolding it and blinking at the scrawl that danced across the page. Neat, swirling, but definitely unfamiliar. Certainly not the handwriting of anyone Harry had encountered at court.

  


_My Dearest Prince,_

 

_I am most eager to be with you once more. It has been many moons since we have seen each other last, and when the news arrived from Jinan that you were requesting my presence at court, my heart sung and beat anew._

  


_I had prayed on it, and I knew that no outsider, no foreigner could ever fulfill your needs. I knew it as surely as I know the sun rises in the morning and falls at dusk that you would require me one day. Our souls were entwined at birth – how could we hope to ever live apart?_

  


_Remember what Rebecca had said to us both when she bound us during the betrothal ceremony? That this was a linkage strong as metal, as enduring as the swords that forged the fabled Iron Throne._

  


Harry scowled and threw the rest of the letter down without finishing it. A fucking love letter stashed away in a treasure chest. Harry never knew Zayn to be so predictable. Harry picked up the next sheet of parchment, bit down at the sight of the same awful handwriting, and made himself read the first few lines.

  


_My Dearest Prince Love,_

  


_Do you remember what you said to me when we were twelve years old – before your father grew cold and weary from war? That no one would ever come between us? That our love would endure the centuries and spawn its own fables?_

  


_Because I remember your vow, and it is all that keeps me going during this exile_

  


Harry discarded this letter with disgust as well. And on and on it went. Twelve different letters, all undated, but all with the same message. And all alluding to recent enough events – the end of the war, Harry's arrival in Jinan, the wedding, and King Yaser's invitation to come to court – to prove to Harry that Zayn was an absolute liar and a cheat, a man still in touch with his childhood fiancee.

Perhaps Harry should have taken Louis up on his offer. Perhaps Harry should have taken Taylor to bed when she was so desperate to apologize to Harry. Perhaps Harry shouldn't have worked so hard on changing his reputation, on proving that he could be faithful and monogamous and all of the things that everyone in Holmes said he wasn't capable of being.

Because Zayn apparently didn't care about such minor details. Zayn just wanted Harry to be pretty and keep his mouth open, and in the meantime Zayn could find his emotional fulfillment with some warrior girl who slaughtered her whole fucking family.

Harry wasn't even thinking. He was scared, he was heartbroken, he was everything he didn't want to be, everything his mother had raised him not to be. And so Harry turned about in Zayn's study, blind with all of his warring emotions, and saw the neglected fireplace. It almost called to him.

Harry did not know a lot of things. Harry did not know how to be a good person and it was clear that Harry did not know Zayn. But Harry knew how to start a fire from scratch, and when it got warm enough, Harry tossed the letters into the flames. One by one, twelve letters in total, taking satisfaction in the distinctive crackle of flames and the way the edges of the parchment curled inward before turning into ash.

Because Harry was _furious_. And Harry knew that he wasn't particularly quick to anger, but this time his rage was justified. There was no slowing down, taking a deep breath, and trying to move past this betrayal. If this was the game they were playing – if Zayn was going to whore around with girls who didn't even have a proper title – then _fine_.

Harry knew that the smell would eventually alert Zayn, but the letters were all but gone by the point Zayn lurched out of bed, running over to the doorway. It would've been funny, maybe, if it were anyone else. Zayn nude, his hair in complete disarray and his eyes wild as Harry watched him put the pieces together. The removed floorboard next to the bed, the treasure chest still sitting open on top of the desk. And then Harry before the fireplace, stoking the flames with a poker and projecting an aura of calmness even as his heart continued to roar.

Harry looked up at Zayn defiantly. Zayn opened his mouth and shut it, his entire face screwed up in panic.

Harry wondered if Zayn would stop underestimating him now. Because this? Tossing a few letters into a fire?

This was _nothing_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo I might need to take another brief hiatus. I'm kind of a fuck-up and have been advised by my betas to focus on one thing at a time for once, but I promise that as soon as I finish my Big Bang I'll be back to this fic. Pinky promise.


	12. Part Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Harry felt powerful, impressive, as though Zayn were finally seeing who Harry was for the first time – a man ringed with fire, not one to be dismissed out of hand. It was an intoxicating sensation. Harry could not get enough of it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as usual, to all of my betas - Rue, Emily, Grace and Fee. And thanks to everyone who has been reading!

Harry was not even sure how long he and Zayn regarded each other in silence. It felt like a lifetime, some interminable period where the entire universe shifted underneath Harry's feet and his blood ran cold. Harry felt powerful, impressive, as though Zayn were finally seeing who Harry was for the first time – a man ringed with fire, not one to be dismissed out of hand. It was an intoxicating sensation. Harry could not get enough of it.

But finally, after several long moments, Zayn seemed to find the courage to speak, opening his mouth and holding his hands out pleadingly. Harry felt himself tense and withdraw, already sure that anything Zayn uttered at this point would be filth.

“Harry – ”

“It isn't what it looks like?” Harry supplied, turning back to the flames. The fire was leaping happily, a merry blaze, almost as though it were feasting ravenously on the letters from Zayn's betrothed. Harry wished that he could reach in and grab a bit of the scalding ash to throw against Zayn's hands. Never his face – Harry would never want to damage something so pretty. But if Harry could burn the feeling in Zayn's fingertips, then Zayn would not be able to gain pleasure from reaching out to someone else.

“It isn't,” Zayn tried. “It really, _really_ isn't. I never even replied – ”

“Bullshit,” Harry answered, flexing his fist where he had his hand rested against his knee. Harry was _frustrated_. It seemed as though ever since Harry's arrival in Jinan, his life had been one series of setbacks after another, some of which Harry had been better equipped to deal with than others. Oftentimes Harry needed space to process his emotions, to sit with his feelings and try to come to terms with the passion itching underneath his skin. But this anger, the rage that gripped Harry now – it was of an entirely different sort. This anger demanded to be felt. It was not a passive wrath, but an inconvenient fury, one that begged for quick and immediate action.

Because it was one thing to know that his husband had betrayed him, but it was something else entirely to know that _Louis_ had been right and that Zayn had fallen into the fallacy so many had propagated – that Harry was stupid, that Harry was foolish, that Harry was easy to deceive. Harry and Zayn had experienced so many back and forth moments in their relationship to date, but Harry had never previously thought that Zayn _hated_ him. Now, however, Harry was consumed by the thought. Why else would Zayn treat him so poorly? Zayn's actions went beyond carelessness, obliviousness, or neglect. “Try again, Your Highness,” Harry finally continued tonelessly. “This time actually attempt to convince me.”

“Harry – ”

“I'm not stupid,” Harry cried. It felt like a mantra, something that Harry had to repeat internally and out loud over and over again. Maybe one day someone would hear Harry's utterance and actually believe him. “I'm not stupid, I'm not a child, and I'm not a silly whore you paid to bring to Jinan – no matter what it is you and everyone else at this court seems to think about me. I'm your _husband_ , your Prince Consort. I was going to rule my own kingdom and instead traitors wrote me out of my birthright. I have long accepted my fate and instead attempted to revel in the opportunities afforded me here, a fresh start and the prospect of your love. You cannot deny my gods-given right as a royal – as the Prince of Holmes – to be at your side, so at the very least I would ask that you respect me.”

“I never said that it wasn't your right,” Zayn pleaded. “You know how much I care about you – ”

“ _Really_?” Harry asked sardonically, turning around to glare at Zayn once more. “The letters from your dearest would certainly imply otherwise. How did it go again? Something like, ' _I knew that no_ outsider _could ever fulfill your needs_ – '”

“Harry, please!” Zayn interrupted. “She sent letters I never responded to! I have never, _ever_ had anything to do with the girl!”

Harry blinked as anger roiled through his veins. Zayn honestly appeared to believe Harry was that daft – that Zayn could just say _anything_ and Harry would accept it, even when all of the evidence pointed to the contrary. As though Zayn had a magical mouth. And he did, at least in the bedroom – but Harry could also see the deception for what it was, now. The late Queen Anne's words reverberated through Harry's skull, louder and louder with every moment that passed – “ _I can promise you that someday another man will try to manipulate you and you will have to know how to resist being a pawn. You will have to chart your own course_.”

His mother had been so, so right.

Harry nodded, steeling himself internally. Externally, Harry just smiled blithely and replied, “Okay.”

Zayn blinked, his eyes dancing between Harry's eyes and the still blazing fire. “O-okay?”

“Yes, Zayn,” Harry said, standing and throwing the poker down at his feet. It bounced ominously before skittering against the tiles, landing dangerously close to the fireplace. “ _Okay_.”

Harry pushed past Zayn into the main room, collected the rest of his clothes in his arms, and stormed out of Zayn's quarters, slamming the door behind him as loud as he could.

  


A few of Zayn's servants were lounging about in the hallway when Harry came scampering out of Zayn's rooms, and the servants all watched impassively as Harry came to a stop and pulled his clothing back on. It was surprisingly difficult – ever since Harry had arrived in Jinan, he required some sort of help getting dressed most days, and Harry had always been much better pulling clothes off than putting them on. Harry rebuffed several attempts at assistance, bristling at the idea that he required _anything_ from one of Zayn's men. It took a few minutes, but finally Harry managed to scrounge his boots back on and stomped down the hallway, several pairs of eyes watching his back as he tried – and failed – to make his exit with dignity.

Harry should have gone back to his own rooms, but he was too upset to be holed up by himself. His anger was thrumming steadily through his bloodstream, fast, drum-like, almost unyielding. Harry needed to burn something else or yell at someone. He figured the former would likely get him in trouble with the King and Queen and lead to conversations Harry was unwilling to have, so Harry continued down the staircase and made his way to Louis' rooms, banging on the wood with closed fists.

Louis appeared in the doorway after several seconds, blinking away sleep and wearing his bed clothes. Harry gave himself a moment to wonder at the hour, contemplating whether his impulsive decision was actually a good idea or would instead spawn more unwanted gossip. In the meantime, Louis eyed Harry warily, sighing deeply to himself and throwing the door open. Harry brushed past Louis, who bowed sarcastically.

“This is not a matter that could have waited until the morning, Your Highness?” Louis asked, yawning around his fist and cracking his shoulders. Harry could see the shifting bones through the thin material of Louis' shirt. Harry winced at the display and shook his head.

“No. I – I found the letters. From the Edwards girl.”

Louis cocked his head slightly to the side. As usual, his face gave nothing away. If Harry had to guess, he would suppose that Louis was bored. “Oh?”

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Harry replied, rolling his eyes.

“And how did you react when you found those letters?” Louis asked, the hint of a grin dancing at the corners of his mouth. As though all of this was some grand joke. Harry really wanted to hit Louis, strike the mirth clean off his face. “I would hope that you did not behave rashly.”

“Rashly?” Harry scoffed, licking over his lips with a quick dart of his tongue. Perhaps what Harry had done was rash, but there had not been anything quite as satisfying as the crackle of a flame, the stench of burning parchment. Harry wondered if his trousers still smelled of the smoke. “You _knew_ how I would react. That's why you told me about the letters in the first fucking place. For a laugh.”

“I assumed that you would pick a fight with Zayn, but we both know that you are the type that does not require much to initiate a quarrel,” Louis remarked casually. “I cannot help it that I enjoy it when you two bicker.” Louis turned away from Harry slightly, stifling yet another yawn with the palm of his hand. “Oh, and I'm not sure if you know, but you _reek_ of sex. You should go to your own quarters and wash yourself before anyone gets any sordid ideas about your character.”

“Louis,” Harry plead. “Please. For one moment, can you at least try to be helpful?”

“I have been helpful,” Louis retorted, finally slinking back to his bed and laying against the mound of pillows he had assembled against the headboard. “I always tell you what Zayn's up to. I'm such a good little lackey for you, Styles, and I don't even ask you for much in return.”

“Being helpful and trying to create drama are _not_ the same thing, I'll have you know.”

Louis glared at Harry again before he sighed dramatically, throwing his arms up in the air. “Then why are you even here, Your Highness? Why did you seek me out in the middle of the night?”

Harry realized that it would be best if he just ignored Louis' theatrics. This moment wasn't about Louis anyway. This was entirely about Zayn's betrayal. “Do you know what those letters said about me?” Harry asked, his fingers trembling. “They called me a stranger – an outsider.”

“Well, technically you are both of those things,” Louis remarked, his arms still outstretched. “Although it is rude and tasteless to point it out.”

“Thanks?” Harry replied, unsure whether Louis was defending him or not. “I mean – I suppose?”

“I assume the letters contained other details,” Louis continued. “Things that you do not feel comfortable discussing with your kinsmen just yet.”

Harry lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps.”

“Do you wish to discuss the letters with me?”

Harry bit at his lip and ducked his gaze. “I – I'm not sure.”

“She will not be a problem for you, Harry,” Louis said, his words surprisingly gentle. “The plans have already been set in motion. She's never making it to this court.”

Harry gulped and nodded. Harry could not trust Louis as far as he could throw him, but Harry also knew that Louis _would_ do this for him. “Thank you. Will – you won't – ?”

“Zayn is never going to know,” Louis interrupted. “Unless you want to tell him? Throw it into his face?”

“I don't,” Harry said. “I – I want him to respect me, but I also want him to continue to underestimate me. I need your word that whatever it is you have planned won't be traced back to me.”

Louis ran his fingers through his hair and hummed. “I certainly know the importance of discretion. I pulled some strings – there are plenty of people in this kingdom who owe me favors. It won't be traced back to _either_ of us.”

Harry felt something like gratitude settle in his veins, right next to the still boiling anger. Harry exhaled lowly. “Thank you.”

Louis pursed his lips and rolled his eyes but Harry understood the gesture for what it was. Louis was exceptionally difficult to get a good read on, but also the easiest. He and Zayn were more similar than Harry would ever like to admit out loud.

“If you're _that_ upset with Zayn, though, I certainly know a way to get back at him,” Louis grinned, teeth white and sharp. Harry paused as he took in the display Louis made on the bed. Louis' body was softer than Zayn's harsh angles, his skin far too pale compared to Zayn's soft brown hue, and Louis' eyes were a cold, crushing blue, nothing at all like the warm toffee of Zayn's. But Harry could go there if he needed to. It _was_ the only sort of manipulation he had any skill in, the art of pillow talk and insinuation. Harry did owe Louis. And it would hurt Zayn, maybe as much as Zayn had already destroyed Harry tonight. Harry didn't want to go there, but. It _was_ an option.

“Take you to bed, you mean?” Harry asked, meandering over to the edge of the bed and leaning on his forearms. Louis rolled onto his side and shrugged, another ghost smile tugging at the seam of his lips. Louis really was quite pretty, in a sort of impish, teasing way. For not the first time, Harry wondered what would have happened if Harry had walked into Jinan and discovered anyone other than Prince Zayn waiting for him. Because Harry had been lucky – he _knew_ he had been. There had been no guarantee that his betrothed would be attractive or intelligent or considerate, and yet Zayn was all of those things, and then some. The best possible scenario – except no, not at all. Because Zayn kept secrets from Harry. Because Zayn did not lay with Harry until Harry begged him for it, and now he only treated Harry like a whore who could be paid off with trinkets and sparse, rare moments of undivided attention. Because Zayn wrote love letters to a girl behind Harry's back and invited her to court – the same court that housed his husband.

Louis was smiling while Harry mulled all of this over, this lightning quick, self-satisfied twist of lips, and then he was pulling at Harry's hand and interlacing their fingers. Harry blinked down at the sight before pulling his hand out of Louis' grasp to crawl completely onto the bed. It was almost like some perverse muscle memory, the way Harry threw his legs over Louis' hips, straddling him. Louis laid his hands over Harry's waist, this surprisingly soft gesture, but Harry didn't want that, didn't want to pretend like this would be any sort of sweet encounter. If they were doing this, if they were betraying Zayn's trust, it would be a meeting born of rage and convenience. Harry wound his fingers through Louis' loose brown hair and tugged, smirking at Louis' sharp inhale, the fluttering of Louis' eyelashes. Harry eyed the column of Louis' neck, the long expanse of milky skin, and tried to make himself feel something beyond roiling bitterness and self-loathing.

“Why, Louis, aren't you satisfied with Liam?” Harry mocked. Harry thought, rancorously, of how he would have to speak with Liam about Louis again, how Harry would have to guarantee that he fulfilled his end of this sordid bargain between Louis and himself. Harry felt like the worst sort of human, honestly, with Zayn's come still dried on the inside of his thighs, the stench of Zayn's sex clinging to his clothes, and Zayn's half-brother warm underneath the back of his legs. “Is Liam's prick not enough for you?”

“Liam isn't a royal,” Louis huffed, his eyes still shut. It felt like some sort of admission, Louis' fingers clenching and unclenching against Harry's hips. As though Louis were the first person in the world infatuated with rings and crowns. “He isn't a Prince like you. You know you would make a most dazzling trophy.”

Harry felt the corner of his lips twist up in disdain. All of this was stupid. _Of course_ Louis only wanted Harry because Harry would make a pretty prize – another notch on the bedpost. Harry could almost understand it, remembering the pride he used to feel when he would bed a particularly important ambassador right underneath his parents' noses.

“Your brother, the Prince, wasn't enough of a reward for you?” Harry cooed, malice dripping in every word. Harry wasn't quite sure how he was expecting for Louis to react at the insinuation, another reminder of a vile rumor Harry still did not like to think about, but Louis' eyes flew open and he scowled, drawing his hand back and smacking it solidly against Harry's cheek. Harry gasped and went toppling off Louis' lap, landing on the other side of the bed and clutching his face in shock. Harry could not remember the last time someone had the audacity to strike him – perhaps it had never actually happened before. “You _hit_ me!”

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Your Highness,” Louis apologized, voice completely monotone even as his blue eyes flashed. “My hand must have slipped.”

“Why did you do that?” Harry demanded, the skin where Louis struck him uncannily warm. “I – I should tell – ”

“Who? Zayn, your husband?” Louis asked, examining his cuticles lazily. “Will you also mention how you crawled into my bed and climbed on top of my lap?”

Harry felt something inside of himself bend before snapping entirely. Louis could not play victim, could not pretend as though Harry hadn't done anything besides exactly what Louis had wanted all along. “Why not, Louis? Maybe I'll tell him everything, like how you were begging for it, how you let me pull your hair and how you would have fucked me, even knowing that Zayn had just been inside of me, too.”

Louis blanched, his mouth falling open in shock. Harry felt absolutely jubilant knowing that he had finally, _finally_ managed to get Louis tongue-tied, and Harry pushed himself off of the bed, leaving Louis' quarters with the last fucking word.

  


The hallways were still and warm as Harry made his way back to his own rooms. Harry fanned at himself lazily with the back of his hand, mumbling a bit to himself about the heat, when he noticed a tabby streaking across the corridor. Harry clenched his hands into a fist once more and took a moment to count quietly to himself. The day had already felt interminable and it was only about to get longer.

Harry ran against the far wall, scooping up the cat in his hands. The tabby gave a tiny meow and Harry sighed, trying not to find solace in the animal's soft purring.

Harry made his way back to his rooms in one piece. Thankfully, none of his servants were waiting for him, so Harry made his way inside undisturbed, dropping the tabby onto the floor while he walked over to his bedside table, drinking straight from the water jug that had been placed there. When Harry turned back toward the tabby, it had transformed, of course, and Caroline was instead standing in its place.

“It was foolishness to visit that rat,” Caroline hissed as way of introduction. “And you would have laid with him – ”

“No, I wouldn't have,” Harry interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “Don't be foolish. Also, hello. It is rather nice to see you.”

Caroline hardly seemed to have heard Harry at all. “Why were you in that filthy boy's room? I presume it was not to have a friendly chat. You went because you were trying to f – ”

“Caroline!” Harry yelled. “ _Nothing happened_. Nothing. So, can we drop the matter? I feel low enough as it is.”

Caroline opened her mouth, clearly poised to continue the argument, and then abruptly shut it. She took a moment to gather her dress in her hands and then sat on the edge of Harry's bed. She looked tired, the sort of exhaustion that went beyond bagged eyes and pale skin. It was a deeper fatigue, a bone weariness that pulled her lips downward and brought redness to the white of her eyes.

“You don't look well,” Harry remarked as he took her in. “And I have not seen you in ages.”  
“Ages?” Caroline scoffed. “It's only been two months, Harry. Not even that.”

Harry hummed noncommittally. Time had ceased to move in any sort of way that made sense to Harry, but if Caroline said it had been two months, then sure. Two months. “Where have you been? I – I've needed you. I've missed you.”

Caroline sighed, rubbing at a bruise along her collarbone. Even her hands seemed spindly, thinner and more brittle. “I went to Holmes,” Caroline answered, tone clipped. “I – I wanted to see for myself what was happening.”

Harry inhaled sharply before crossing his arms over his chest defensively, almost like the gesture alone could ward off dark thoughts. It wasn't like Harry wasn't curious about Holmes, like he didn't care about what had happened to his mother and to the kingdom that had once been his cherished and most beloved home. But Harry could not afford to think about it, absolutely refused to indulge in thoughts that would only leave him feeling morose and helpless. Harry imagined that thinking about Holmes was almost like chasing a devil – there was only one real route the beast would take, and that was straight into the abyss.

“Is it – is the reality as awful as my nightmares?” Harry whispered.

“Worse.” Caroline bit at her lip and wrung her hands in her lap. “The entire kingdom is in chaos – if you can even call the disparate territories a kingdom at this point. People are terrified – attempting to flee here or to seek refuge underneath your sister's auspices.”

“People are trying to come _here_?”

“It's a long and treacherous journey, but I certainly passed many who were attempting it,” Caroline sighed. “The situation is _that_ dire. Earl George – or I suppose Emperor George, as he has fashioned himself now – has round up everyone in the kingdom who was once loyal to you and your family. He has conducted a first round of mock trials and executions. It's absolutely brutal, Harry. There is wretched and widespread poverty and disease amongst the peasants, worse than even the most merciless years of the war. I imagine that it won't be long until George turns his gaze westward, toward Jinan.”

“What would he have to gain from looking toward us?” Harry squawked. “Does he want to kill me? Is it not enough that he butchered my mother and is killing all of my kinsman?”

Caroline leaned forward, reaching out and capturing Harry's hands in between her own. “You don't understand, Harry. I'm sure he would like nothing more than to wipe out any and all Styles heirs, but this particular matter is all about money. The kingdom, as you know, had been close to bankruptcy after years of war, but your mother was able to negotiate a small treasure in exchange for your hand in marriage. Emperor George had been anticipating coming into that fortune when he murdered your mother. But the money – it's _gone_.”

“What do you mean, 'gone'? My mother spent it all already? Repaid the family debts?”

“That's the thing,” Caroline said with a wry smile. “Nobody seems to know where the riches are. I visited my sisters in the old coven, and even they are unsure as to where the gold ended up. It's almost like the knowledge has been blocked from them.”

Harry gulped, sliding his hands from out of Caroline's grasp and sitting next to her on the bed. “Maybe my mother foresaw where Holmes was ending up and sent the money to Gemma?” Harry speculated.

“Or maybe the Queen knew that there were traitors in her midst and she engineered a very profitable, very public betrothal that would guarantee your safety,” Caroline replied. “She ended the war, got you out of Holmes, _and_ earned you a fortune all in one fell swoop.”

Harry blinked, the realization washing over him almost in a riptide. Harry knew his mother, knew her intelligence and her foresight. “You don't think the gold ever left Jinan.”

“No,” Caroline acknowledged. “I do not.”

“And you think George has come to a similar conclusion.”

Caroline nodded. “And that is why I fear he will eventually turn westward. He does not have the funds to pay for an army, but he has instilled the necessary fear to call one up.”

“But that would be suicide,” Harry said. “I – it was one thing when my father was leading Holmes' army. George doesn't have the tools. And if George is killing everyone who demonstrated loyalty to the Styles family, all of the best generals – ”

“I did not say it made sense,” Caroline interrupted. “We both know that the Malik family's riches and resources would spell a summary defeat of George's pitiful army. King Yaser could summon mercenaries tomorrow and that would be enough to destroy Holmes at this point. I'm just trying to tell you what your husband won't.”

“So you think Zayn knows about all of this.”

Caroline scoffed. “Of course. He'd have to.”

Harry nodded, leaning against the mattress and letting himself sit with all of this new information. It was almost too much to process. Harry would need to schedule a time to talk to all of his kinsmen and try to figure everything out. Foreign affairs, diplomacy – that had never been Harry's strong suit. He did not have the subtlety for it, and Harry knew that now more than ever, as he sat and marveled over his mother's quiet elegance. Harry could have never engineered such a plot. Instead, Harry was consumed by how much simpler it would be if he could just find a way to kill George outright. The man was a snake, a coward who slaughtered women and children and deserved to have his head paraded on a pike. Harry needed to find a way to have someone disembowel George, wanted to personally witness as George was killed and quartered, his limbs flung across the entirety of Holmes.

“Do you think Zayn is preparing for war, then?” Harry asked, turning his gaze to Caroline. “Do you think _that_ is why he treats me so poorly? Because he is so busy?”

Caroline cocked her head, her eyes flashing with interest. “As opposed to what?”

“Were you not following me all night?”

Caroline shook her head. “I only just arrived from Holmes and when I called for you, I realized you were in Tomlinson's quarters so I followed you there.”

Harry sucked at his front two teeth and tried to think how to best broach the subject of Zayn's transgression. “I – uh. When you were gone, I was informed that Zayn's former betrothed was going to be arriving at court.”

Caroline scrunched up her nose. “Why?”

“It was King Yaser's idea – something about wanting to maintain fair relations between her people and the capital.”

Caroline groaned. “I always _hated_ the way this cursed kingdom operated. All of these mini-rulers to appease. King Yaser should have just killed them all when he began to consolidate power.”

“Yes, _well_. King Yaser invited her to come to court and Louis let me know that Zayn had some of the girl's letters in his quarters. I found them and I – I read them.”

“And you did not like the contents.”

Harry shook his head. “No, I did not. All of this talk about true love and how I was an outsider and how some woman had sanctified it at their betrothal ceremony – ”

“A woman?” Caroline interrupted, her voice notching upwards with curiosity. “A woman – or a witch?”

“What do you mean?”

“Harry,” Caroline began urgently. “Remember how I told you – someone here is blocking me. A witch or a warlock is keeping me from observing Prince Zayn's movements. It's rather customary in Jinan for important ceremonies to be overseen by a magician. So, was it a woman or a witch?”

Harry shrug his shoulders. “I don't know! The girl did not import quite that level of detail in her letters.”

“Well, what was the name? The name of the woman in the letter?”

Harry resisted the urge to shrug his shoulders again. “Something with an 'R'? Rachel? No, that's not it. Renee?”

“Rebecca,” Caroline murmured, standing suddenly. She looked wild, a sort of magnetic energy swirling around her and making her blonde hair stream around her shoulders like a lion's mane. Harry felt a trill of fear creep down his spine. “The name of the woman was Rebecca, wasn't it?”

Harry nodded, feeling a satisfied click in his brain. “Yes. How did you know?”

Caroline let out a primal, almost animal growl. “That _bitch_.”

“Caroline – ” Harry exclaimed, jumping up from his own place on the bed, but just like that, Caroline was gone.

In that moment, Harry decided that he hated absolutely _everyone_. He collapsed against his mattress with a strangled wail.

  


Harry decided that he was _done_ with pomp and circumstance. He was done with pretending to be the perfect Prince Consort, warm and bubbly, charming and easygoing. He was hardly that silly boy anymore, beaten down by everything men had done to him ever since he left Holmes. This court didn't deserve Harry's charisma anyway.

Instead, Harry decided he would sleep over the next two days. He yelled at nearly everyone who came to visit him, including Zayn – who Harry made sure to tell his servants was banned from his quarters for the foreseeable future – Nick, Niall, and a desperately underpaid and overworked Kevin. Harry knew full well that he was behaving like an absolute terror, but he also felt like he was at his wit's end. Harry just did not _care_ anymore. And that was a truly refreshing realization.

  


Harry would have continued in his sulk, but the Festival of Masks finally settled upon the castle, blanketing the entire court with joviality. The Queen had already sent down a personal message to Harry requesting his presence at the first day's activities – some sort of jousting tournament during the day and then a ball later in the evening. Harry was not particularly interested in either, but he also knew that he could not ignore the Queen's private request, not when Harry was still contemplating how he could use her fondness to his advantage. So that morning, Harry forced himself out of bed and called to his servants, requesting that they draw him a bath and assemble his clothes for the day.

The Festival of Masks was a nearly week-long affair, a celebration of some fabled King from the coast who had tricked a rival contender to the throne by donning a mask and soliciting the traitor's secrets. Harry had thought it was an absolutely asinine, pointless story the first time he heard it from Professor Sheeran, but Harry had long come to realize that most holidays had ridiculous origins. Also, this festival meant parties, food and drink, and the opportunity to wear a mask and potentially continue his brooding. If Harry spared a moment as he was getting dressed to contemplate how dashing Zayn would certainly look wearing his own mask, nobody had to know.

Harry was sure that he would never get used to winter in Jinan. The first day of the festival was pleasant, a mild, sunny morning that was still warmer than most summer days in perpetually frosty Holmes. Harry basked in the warm rays, playing with his crown, a new, thinner piece commissioned by the King, and followed Kevin and the rest of his servants out to the castle grounds, Harry's forest green robes gliding softly over the freshly trimmed grass.

The entirety of the castle grounds had been transformed into a small carnival. There were booths with hawkers from the marketplace, as well as visitors from all throughout the kingdom. Kevin clicked his tongue, gesturing for Harry to stay close, and Harry sighed, realizing that security precautions meant he would have to take in all of the merriment from a distance. There _were_ a lot of people, more than lived inside of the sprawling castle itself, and Harry contented himself with pouting as he was led to long, wooden stands overlooking the jousting tournament. The King and Queen had yet to arrive and all of the princesses were seated a few yards away from Harry, each girl waving prettily when Harry made his entrance. A grand cheer went through the crowd as Harry took his seat right in front of the barricades and Harry smiled sweetly, casting his eyes out across the makeshift tourney.

The mood of the festival attendees reminded Harry of going to fairs back in Holmes, standing next to his mother as a small child and waving tiny flags made just for him. It was that same sort of childish energy, wild and unapologetic, and Harry gave himself a moment to take it all in. If Caroline was to be believed, this was the sort of moment his mother had sent Harry abroad to enjoy. Festivals, holidays, moments of pure, simplistic entertainment. Harry wished that Queen Anne was with him now. Wished that they could enjoy this celebration together.

Harry watched the crowds as the minutes inched closer to the start of the first jousting tourney. Most of the attendees did appear to be noblemen, the sort that Harry stubbornly avoided when he made his way throughout the castle. There were Ladies tittering behind fans and tying colored handkerchiefs on the end of men's lances – some sort of flirtatious symbol of good luck. Harry observed this tradition closely, noting how across the tourney grounds, Louis actually encouraged a nervous Lady Calder to walk over to Liam and tie her handkerchief around Liam's weapon. Liam blushed and exchanged a meaningful look with Louis, one that poor Lady Calder completely missed as she hid behind her hands and giggled into Louis' doublet. Harry was absolutely disgusted by Liam's behavior, could feel the edge of his lips curl upwards in a sneer. Harry rolled his eyes and leaned back against his seat, muttering vehemently under his breath when his crown got caught in his curls.

“May I have your blessing, Your Highness?” a deep voice called, one that jolted Harry completely out of his thoughts. Harry looked down and felt his heart catch in his throat at the sight Zayn made – beautiful as always, strapping and handsome where he sat upon one of his Arabian horses, his eyes almost bronze underneath the biting winter sun. Although it was likely that bronze wasn't even the right color to describe the true richness of his eyes – like always, Zayn's gaze seemed as sensuous and heavy as the rings decorating his fingers.

Harry hated himself for going a little breathless.

“You always have my blessing,” Harry mumbled, extracting one of the handkerchiefs a servant had stuffed into his pocket and tying it around the end of Zayn's lance, stubbornly avoiding eye contact with his husband as he busied himself with the task.

“I have a gift to offer in exchange,” Zayn whispered, guiding the horse closer to the barrier. Zayn was now so close that Harry could smell the familiar musk that clung to his clothing, could almost feel the heat of his skin.

Harry raised an eyebrow, finishing his knot and airily asking, “Oh?”

“A whole host of treasures,” Zayn continued, jutting his chin out defiantly. “In addition to my limitless love and infinite adoration.”

It took everything in Harry's power to not laugh in Zayn's face. “Ah, so more toys to add to my ever-expanding collection of trinkets from you.”

“My love is nothing like trinkets,” Zayn said, and the words sounded so earnest that Harry almost believed him. “My love for you could move mountains.”

“Your love for me could perhaps displace an anthill,” Harry retorted. “Let us not get ahead of ourselves.”

Zayn frowned. “Your words wound me.”

“And your actions wound _me_. Perhaps we are finally even.”

Zayn's nostrils flared and Harry grinned as prettily as he could manage. “You know I had nothing to do with that silly girl,” Zayn murmured ferociously. “There is no need for rash deeds, cruel words, or heated jealousy. What good could she even provide me?”

“I don't know,” Harry answered just as fiercely. “I have spent the last three days wondering as much. She certainly has not been the one swallowing your seed every night.”

Zayn looked around, a flush coloring his cheeks, but no one seemed to be paying them any mind, too busy engaging in their own revelry. “ _Harry_ ,” Zayn scolded. “You can't speak so – ”

“Crassly?” Harry supplied, adjusting the crown on his head. His hair was so long now that the strands continuously ended up tangled in the crown's fine points. “Poorly? I'll speak to you as I like.”

Zayn's horse neighed and Zayn took a moment getting the mare to settle. When he looked up at Harry again, his cheeks were still red, but this time Harry could not entirely pinpoint why. “Can you come up to my quarters tonight before the ball?” Zayn asked, his gaze simultaneously soft and piercing. “I – I truly do have a surprise for you.”

“I'm not laying with you,” Harry scoffed. “Experiencing your cock can no longer be categorized as a surprise.”

Zayn looked around again while Harry guffawed. “Harry. Please. I'm not beyond begging.”

Harry licked his lips and smirked. “Then _beg_. You know how much I like the sight of you on your knees.”

Zayn seemed torn between arousal and the urge to protest. Harry decided he quite liked the effect, the way Zayn's blush crept across his collarbones and the heavy, trenchant look in his eyes. Harry almost wanted to follow Zayn to his rooms and have him right then, but Harry forced himself to remember that he was still very, very upset with Zayn and clamped down on the urge. He wouldn't let his attraction get in the way of exacting his revenge.

“ _Please_ , Harry,” Zayn said, settling his lance on top of the fence and leaning up to clasp Harry's hands in between his own gloved palms. “Please come to my rooms tonight. I will make sure it's worth your while.”

“I really am not going to take you to bed,” Harry said. “The thought of you and that girl – ”

“We aren't,” Zayn started. “We weren't. _Please_. Just let me show you.”

Harry cast his eyes across the field, aware that noblemen were starting to pay them mind, with furtive glances and whispers behind hands. The last thing Harry wanted to do was make a scene. Harry sighed and turned his gaze back to consider Zayn. Zayn did appear very sincere, his hazel eyes almost sparkling in the sunlight. Harry scolded himself firmly before nodding once, sharply.

“I'll pay you a visit,” Harry said. “But I am not bedding you. I mean it.”

“I know,” Zayn said, squeezing Harry's hand. Zayn grabbed his lance back from where he had rested it on top of the barrier and bowed his head, smirking as he galloped away.

Harry had difficulty paying attention during the rest of the tourney, his mind swirling as he tried to anticipate what Zayn's surprise could possibly be.

  


Harry waited until after the midday feast to head towards Zayn's quarters. Kevin had said that Zayn would be ready to greet Harry any time after the morning festivities, but Harry rather liked the idea of making Zayn wait. Making Zayn wonder when Harry was coming – if Harry was going to appear in Zayn's rooms at all. It made something almost magnificent thrum underneath Harry's fingertips, this quiet excitement knowing that for once, Harry was not the one left guessing.

Harry found himself traveling the castle corridors by himself. Harry had dismissed Kevin for the day and most everyone else was preparing for the night's masked ball. Harry was ready for the evening's revelry as well – he had his own green velvet mask stashed within his robes and his crown firmly affixed to the back of his head. He was sure he looked dashing, more regal than he typically appeared, his boots clacking satisfactorily as Harry made his way down the hallway to Zayn's rooms. There were a few of Zayn's usual servant girls loitering around outside, gossiping about the robes Zayn had apparently imported from one of the far western territories just for the night, but Harry ignored them as he rapped against Zayn's rooms with only faintly trembling knuckles.

Zayn let Harry in, bare-chested, heavily tattooed, and still sweaty from the day's earlier competitions. Harry had never been one for jousting – he considered it a waste of physical exertion and brutal on top of that, but Zayn was exemplary at the sport, sleek and strong where he sat atop his horse, and sure in his every movement. Were Harry not still furious with Zayn, Harry was sure he would have found great enjoyment in the ripples of Zayn's back, the bulge of his biceps and the way sweat traveled down the column of his neck, settling in the planes of tattooed collarbones. But alas, Harry was still enraged with Zayn, hurt and confused by his infidelity, and so Harry scolded himself for even noticing Zayn's beauty. He would not let himself be distracted by Zayn's attractiveness yet again.

“Harry,” Zayn said breathlessly, standing back so that Harry could enter. Harry took a seat at Zayn's tea table, pouring himself water and willing himself to remain still. In all honesty, Harry was ridiculously nervous. He had no idea what sort of surprise Zayn could have engineered in the span of three days and Harry was also concerned that this meeting would end in conflict. Harry did not like fighting if he did not have to, and he especially did not like quarreling with Zayn. Harry wanted Zayn to hurt, to feel the same pain that Harry was feeling, but Harry did not want to have to yell at Zayn for that to happen.

Zayn walked across the room and pulled on a chemise, playing with the laces anxiously as he sat across from Harry at the tea table. Instead of drinking from the water jug like Harry, Zayn poured himself tea, staring at the liquid in his cup.

“I just wanted to apologize to you,” Zayn said, fidgeting with the handle of his teacup. “I – keeping those letters was most certainly disrespectful. I realize that and I am so sorry that I have hurt you.”

Harry bit at his lip and quickly ducked his gaze. He felt something twist in his stomach and Harry did not want to begin squirming in his seat. It was just – it was _nice_ to hear Zayn's apology. It was nice to hear something like sincerity dripping from Zayn's lips. But Harry knew that this wasn't about perceptions or how Harry interpreted events. The crux of the matter was Zayn's betrayal, his infidelity. Harry had not _misunderstood_ anything.

“Are you sorry for loving someone else?” Harry asked quietly. “Or only for letting me discover your unfaithfulness?”

“I don't love anyone else,” Zayn answered, reaching over to grab Harry's hand. Harry slid his fingers from under Zayn's palm, looking up and making sure to catalog the crumpling of Zayn's face. “Harry. I don't. I'm not lying to you. I never responded to those letters.”

Harry could feel himself snarling. “But you kept them.”

Zayn nodded and he looked something like a fox with his hind leg caught in a hunter's trap. “I – I did.”

“And you expect me to believe that you never responded,” Harry continued. “You must think me a true dolt.”

“No!” Zayn protested. “No. I could never think that of you, Harry.”

Harry scoffed, squeezing his eyes shut and turning away from Zayn. The anger was returning again – that pure, white heat that made Harry want to be cruel and dismissive. The same blinding rage that had already borne so many poor decisions. Harry knew he had to clamp down on his anger, knew that he could not let his pain blind him.

“You don't treat me like you respect me,” Harry said. “You treat me like a child.”

“I – I know,” Zayn acknowledged. “I don't – I keep things from you. But that's because I want to protect you.”

Harry could not help himself – he laughed. Zayn's cheeks turned crimson but he did not protest, instead raised his teacup to his lips and took a long sip, one that seemed to calm him. His hands were still trembling, but it was not as noticeable. Harry wondered why it was that Zayn was even so anxious in the first place. They both knew the true score. Harry was just the only one willing to acknowledge it.

“I knew you would not believe me,” Zayn said. “And that is why I have to surprise you.”

And that's when a woman appeared next to them.

  


If Harry were not used to Caroline's sudden entrances, Harry was sure he would have thrown his cup at the woman's face and leaped back in fear. But as it was, Harry just sloshed over his glass of water, cursing under his breath as he scrambled to place the cup upright on the table. The woman smiled at Harry, baring her teeth.

She was beautiful, the sort of unnerving beauty that Harry had come to associate with Caroline and consequently with witches in general. The woman had brown skin, dark, almost black hair and wise eyes, the sort that seemed to lacerate straight through Harry's skin. Like Caroline was wont to, the woman was also dressed fairly simply in a plain white dress and dainty heeled shoes.

Harry did not know what to make of her.

“Harry,” Zayn said, rubbing his hands against his breeches nervously. “This is Rebecca.”

“And I already know who you are,” Rebecca said, sinking into an exaggerated bow at Harry's feet. “Prince Harry, it is a pleasure to finally, finally make your acquaintance.”

“ _Finally_?” Harry asked, quirking an eyebrow. “I apologize, but it appears as though you know more about me than I do of you.”

“Any Prince worth anything has to keep many secrets,” Rebecca answered, her eyes glittering when she cast her gaze to peer fondly at Zayn. “I am one of Prince Zayn's.”

“And you are my surprise,” Harry replied, smiling superficially. “Another gift presented without explanation.”

“Rebecca is my guardian,” Zayn interjected hastily. “She's been watching over me since I was a child.”

“And I've been watching over both of you the past few months,” Rebecca continued, crossing her arms over her chest. “Ever since your arrival here in the capital.”

Harry met Rebecca's gaze evenly. Harry wondered if Rebecca knew about Caroline – about how much Harry confided in his kinsmen, about the plans he was putting in motion with Queen Trisha. Harry wondered, but he did not ask. He knew better than to show his hand.

“And how did you earn the title of Zayn's confidante?” Harry asked, leaning back in his chair and regarding the two of them closely.

“Oh, I'm sure you've heard the tale,” Rebecca answered. “A witch comes to court, hellbent on cursing the King's young son, but leaves almost immediately, finding herself unexpectedly enamored with the boy she had intended to harm.”

Harry nearly knocked over his glass again because he _had_ heard the tale and dismissed it out of hand. Matty had told the story as a way to calm Harry's nerves in the days leading up to the wedding – “ _They say a witch once came to visit at court, prepared to curse the young Prince . . . but the minute she laid eyes on him, she had a change of heart. . . ._ ”

“You're the witch who blessed Zayn,” Harry replied slowly. “The one who couldn't hurt him.”

Rebecca nodded her head. “I swore my life to his service. And, by extension now, to yours.”

Harry pursed his lips. “How sweet.”

Zayn kicked at Harry's feet underneath the table. “ _Harry_.”

“What good is your service if I am not aware of it?” Harry asked. “How can I even thank a woman for her loyalty when I'm not aware of her good deeds in the first place?”

“We had to guarantee that you could be trusted,” Rebecca replied bracingly. “You could have been a snake in the grass – a traitor sent to infiltrate Jinan – ”

“And what won you over?” Harry demanded. “What convinced you otherwise? What changed?”

Rebecca opened her mouth and shut it, turning to Zayn with raised eyebrows. It was obvious that neither of them expected for Harry to pursue this line of questioning. They both still underestimated him.

And for them to underestimate him – Rebecca must not have known about Caroline. Or if she did, she was not privy to the whole story. Rebecca did not know that Harry had been holding his own, that he had his own resources and plans. That Harry could still be a snake in the grass, if he wanted to. If he _needed_ to.

“The death of your mother,” Rebecca finally replied gently. “It became obvious to us at that point that you could be trusted.”

Harry sneered. “I'm glad some good came out of her murder.”

“Harry – ” Zayn began.

“No! My mother died weeks ago and I am just meeting Rebecca _now_ ,” Harry said. “What am I supposed to gain from this surprise?”

“That Zayn _trusts_ you, love,” Rebecca stated. “That he trusts and loves you enough to introduce you to his most cherished confidante. A witch sworn to defend his life and his interests. Princes do not reveal such relationships carelessly.”

Harry opened his mouth, poised to retort, but nothing came out. His anger deflated almost immediately as he mulled Rebecca's words over. She was _right_ , was the thing. Harry had not told anyone that Caroline had been assisting him and he certainly had not confided that information to Zayn. The reality that Zayn had introduced Harry to his witch, to his protector – it certainly had to mean _something_.

“Prince Zayn cares about you, Your Highness,” Rebecca continued. “And on my own honor, I can swear to you that the Prince has not had anything to do with the girl who has caused such animosity between you two.”

“On your honor?” Harry asked, licking over his lips nervously. “Do you swear on your coven?”

“I swear on my coven and on my maker,” Rebecca answered solemnly, a breeze seemingly drifting through Zayn's rooms as she uttered the oath. “Prince Zayn has not written to that girl. He has not entertained fantasies of having her as his wife, and he certainly has not committed the immorality of adultery, neither in deed nor in thought.”

Harry let his eyes dart over to consider Zayn, who smiled, small and hesitant. Harry let out a breath that wretched through his body like a sob.

  


Rebecca vanished not longer after she swore her oath, leaving Zayn and Harry to regard each other quietly once more. Harry felt so overwhelmed by all of this new information that he decided to cling to Zayn's side, even when Zayn remarked that he needed to take a bath in preparation for the night's ball. Harry nodded, head pressed against Zayn's chest, and remarked that he would then need to bathe with Zayn, too.

Zayn's personal bathtub was made of marble, with sloping sides and long, clawed feet. Servants bustled about, filling the tub with warmed water and helping the two boys get undressed. Zayn and Harry both murmured their thanks before sinking into the water together, dismissing the servants and insisting that they were more than capable of cleaning themselves. Harry brought Zayn to sit in his lap, and Harry used one of the bars of soap to swipe across Zayn's skin in long, leisurely motions, letting his fingers dance across Zayn's arms and back, rubbing circles across Zayn's broad shoulders. Zayn hummed under the touch, resting the back of his head on Harry's collarbone and grinning sweetly.

“Are you still cross with me?” Zayn asked with a slight pout, blinking dark, fan-like eyelashes up at Harry.

Harry frowned, poking through his emotions, trying to gauge his feelings. The anger that had consumed him over the past few days _had_ dulled from a raging fire, dimming to something softer, more manageable. “No,” Harry answered after a moment's consideration. “I don't think so.”

“Well, then I am glad. I never want you to be cross with me,” Zayn replied. He shifted his legs in the tub, the water rippling with his motion. “I know I've been doing a poor job of keeping you in the loop. I understand that is where all of your anger has stemmed from. But all of that is going to change. We're a team, Harry. In this court, with all of the enemies we have between the two of us, we _have_ to be.”

Harry hummed, not entirely believing Zayn's grand assertion but appreciating the intent behind the words. Zayn blinked up at Harry again, eyes keen and piercing, almost like he knew exactly what Harry was thinking, before grabbing Harry's hand and pressing a soft, pillowy kiss against Harry's palm.

  


After their bath, Zayn and Harry made their way down to the ball together, masks in pockets and hand-in-hand. Harry felt soppy and giddy, grinning at Zayn and hardly even paying attention to where they were walking, not until he noticed they were approaching a tiny niche above the ground floor. Harry smirked to himself, pulling Zayn into the alcove. Harry pushed Zayn against a draped window pane, the curtain this rich, burgundy fabric lined with what Harry assumed was real gold. The air whooshed out of Zayn all in a rush and Harry watched an expression of confusion dance across Zayn's face. Harry gave himself a moment, appreciating the contrast of Zayn's skin against the window covering, before latching his mouth to Zayn's, sucking Zayn's bottom lip into his mouth and tugging at it with his teeth. Zayn's eyelashes fluttered before his eyes went shut entirely, and Harry grabbed Zayn's hands where they had gone slack against his sides, raising them and pinning Zayn against the window, the thud of skin against glass reverberating through the hallway.

Zayn pulled away from Harry's kiss, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide. Harry felt fondness swell within his chest, was so overwhelmed by the love he felt for Zayn that he knew he had to express his gratitude right then. Harry ran his lips over the burn of Zayn's stubble, pressing tiny kisses along the column of Zayn's neck. Zayn moaned, this low, needy thing, and brought a fist to Harry's hair, tugging against Harry's scalp.

“We could've done this in my rooms,” Zayn gasped. “People – someone will _see_ us.”

“Don't care,” Harry mumbled, sucking Zayn's skin into his mouth even as he bore down harder on Zayn's wrists. Harry wanted to ruin Zayn, wanted everyone at court to see the evidence of their reconciliation all over Zayn's flesh. These people had been so quick to talk, so quick to speculate and revel in what they thought was a relationship's disintegration. Harry had believed in the gossip himself and yet Zayn had proved him wrong. Harry had never been so happy to be mistaken. “Let someone stumble by if they like.”

Zayn huffed out a little laugh, flexing his arms where they were still pinned in Harry's grasp. “Wouldn't exactly appreciate it if one of my sisters caught me like this.”

“They won't,” Harry promised, letting go of one of Zayn's wrist to adjust Zayn's crown where it had started to slide down the front of Zayn's face. Zayn looked absolutely gorgeous like this, almost as though he had appeared straight out of some bawdy tale. A royal with honeysuckle skin and candy colored eyes, cheeks flushed, crown askew, and his cock plump and hard against Harry's thigh. “All of your family is already at the ball, I'm sure.”

“Someone is going to wonder – ”

“Then I suppose we should just be fast,” Harry answered, grinning wickedly and pressing the pad of his thumb against Zayn's mouth. Harry dragged Zayn's bottom lip down, taking a moment to marvel at the whiteness of Zayn's teeth and the healthiness of his gums. But then Zayn was ducking his head, slurping Harry's thumb full into his mouth and sucking with hollowed cheeks and fluttering eyelashes, almost the picture of baby-eyed innocence. Harry's heartbeat stuttered.

“What are you waiting for?” Zayn asked, pulling Harry's thumb out of his mouth only to insert Harry's pointer finger in between his lips, coating the digit liberally with saliva. “I thought you said we should be hasty.”

Harry hardly even knew how to speak, how to move. He was mesmerized by the pinkness of Zayn's lips, the heaviness of his eyelids. “What – ?”

“You can fuck me fast,” Zayn cooed. “That's what you would like, yes? To take me here in this little nook? That's why you pulled me in here?”

Harry whimpered and this time it was Zayn's turn to smile, this devilish smirk like he had Harry exactly where he wanted him. And Zayn did, Harry knew this innately. Zayn would _always_ be able to play Harry like an expertly tuned instrument, cradling Harry in his arms and coaxing all of the right notes out of Harry's mouth.

Zayn turned around in the alcove, fiddling with the laces of his breeches while Harry did the same with his own, pulling his cock out and pumping it slow and dry. Zayn teased his breeches down, trailing the fabric over the slight swell of his ass and letting it sit right above his knees. Harry kicked at Zayn's ankles as far as the breeches would allow and then sank into a crouch, massaging at Zayn's ass cheeks and then spreading them, licking a trail along Zayn's crack. Zayn cursed, banging his head against the window with another thud that resounded throughout the hallway. Harry snickered and pressed his mouth full against Zayn's hole, remembering the way Zayn had once done this to Harry, too, cleverly flicking his tongue against Harry's hole. Harry tried to imitate what he remembered liking, nipping against the rim and attempting to lap his tongue inside. Zayn let out this small, broken cry, his body trembling, and reached down to fist himself, the wetness from his cock smearing against the window's fine curtains.

“Don't think I even need to fuck you with my cock,” Harry remarked, sitting back on his haunches and blowing air against Zayn's wet hole. “Think that my tongue would be enough.”

“No need to tease,” Zayn moaned, his words coming out in a lustful jumble. “You know how much I've always loved your mouth. Just – _please_ – ”

Harry hummed to himself, running the tip of his tongue against Zayn's rim again, just to taste. Harry pulled back with a smirk, resuming the earlier stroke of his cock and collecting precome against his index finger. Harry pressed the slicked finger against Zayn's entrance, and Zayn's breath caught once Harry's finger slid past the first tight ring of muscle.

“Harry,” Zayn begged. “Don't tease, please, don't tease – ”

“Let me take care of you,” Harry hummed, even as he pushed in to the second knuckle, crooking his finger and nudging inside of Zayn to find that spot that would make Zayn plea even more desperately. Harry was so in awe of Zayn, wasn't sure how Zayn was taking his finger like this anyway, slick only with Harry's wetness.

“I don't care,” Zayn moaned. “We have to make this quick, remember?”

“You want me to just – ?”

“ _Yes_ , Harry, fuck,” Zayn hissed and Harry had to lean forward and brace himself against the back of Zayn's thighs, overwhelmed by the thought that Zayn wanted Harry to just _take him_ , rushed and raw in an alcove not far from the night's main festivities. That Zayn wanted Harry to fuck him and then leave Zayn to enjoy the rest of the night with the muscle memory of Harry's cock stretching him open.

Harry pulled his finger back out and spat into his palm, coating his cock with his saliva. Once, twice, three times – until Harry's mouth felt almost dry and cottony and there were flecks of spittle against the floor. Zayn stood braced against the window, arms pinned above his head, and he looked absolutely sinful, ass bared, breeches still slouched against his knees, his crown barely sat atop his head. Harry pulled Zayn's ass flush against him so that Zayn's back was arched, this beautiful curvature that Harry wanted to trace with fingertips and tongue when he had more time to worship the planes of Zayn's body. Harry nestled the head of his cock against Zayn's hole, running the tip against Zayn's entrance and feeling like this was most certainly not going to work when he began to press inside.

But Zayn just took Harry in, this tight impossible heat that enveloped Harry whole. Harry felt like he could hardly breathe – he had almost forgotten how _good_ Zayn felt like this, like a gift wrapped just for Harry's enjoyment. Harry gasped into the column of Zayn's neck when he bottomed out, pubic bone pressed against the softness of Zayn's ass. Harry somehow managed to tease, “You're always so easy for it, Your Highness,” before gripping Zayn's hips with filthy fingers and grinding against Zayn's ass experimentally, a tiny movement to get Zayn acquainted to the feeling. Zayn exhaled, this half-moan, half-snicker that was mostly a delayed response to Harry's murmured words before grabbing Harry's right hand and bringing it to his cock.

Zayn hissed out a sweet, “ _Yes_ ,” when Harry first began to really fuck him slow, pumping Zayn's cock in time with his strokes, but that wasn't enough, and Zayn very quickly began to grit out, “Harder,” and “More,” and “ _Faster_ , Harry, fuck.”

Harry wished they were in Zayn's rooms because Harry wanted Zayn to be loud, to be unabashed, to throw his head back and fuck against Harry's cock exactly like how Harry knew Zayn could. But they were in an alcove and Harry could hear the trill of harps and the titter of laughter and they did need to be quiet, no matter the blustering, boastful words Harry had uttered earlier. So Harry brought the hand he wasn't using to jack Zayn to rest against his husband's mouth, pressing against the seam of Zayn's lips as a guarantee that Zayn remained quiet.

Harry was thrusting hard, Zayn's hands banging against the window's glass, when Harry felt Zayn seize. Zayn's entire body went suddenly still and then he was crying out in a whine that reverberated loud and clear. Zayn's breath was hot against the palm of Harry's hand and his come streaked white against the curtains they were still leaned against.

Harry rode out Zayn's orgasm and the aftershocks, rocking against Zayn's ass and trying to stave off his own release, when Zayn mumbled, “Wish you could come on my face – ” and that. Well, Harry would maintain later that he simply hadn't been prepared for such filthiness.

  


Harry was sure that it said something about the two of them that they both quickly pulled up their breeches and helped each other tie laces and adjust crowns. Despite the effort, it was fairly obvious what they had been up to together, their smiles coming slow and sloppy, limbs still loose and languid. Harry was sure they absolutely stunk of sex but neither made any indication to go back upstairs to take yet another bath.

Instead, Zayn slapped Harry's ass and ducked out of the alcove, sparing a moment only to pull on his mask – a simple piece of black fabric – and snicker at the mess he had left on the thick, burgundy curtain. Harry squawked, rubbing at the sting on his skin, and followed Zayn down the rest of the staircase, tying on his own mask as his boots clacked against the tile.

Zayn and Harry came to the large double doors leading to the ballroom, their footsteps slowing the nearer they approached. There were two knights standing on either side, poised to introduce Zayn and Harry to their subjects. Music was drifting out from the ballroom and into the hallway, the sound of horns, strings, and merry chatter. Zayn turned to Harry, his eyes seemingly even more hazel when rimmed with black fabric. Harry felt his heart stutter and Zayn smiled, reaching out to grab Harry's hand and squeezing it.

“I still have another surprise for you,” Zayn murmured lowly. “I had thought to wait until our anniversary, but. There's no reason, hm?”

Harry leaned in and pressed his forehead to Zayn's. “If you think so, Your Highness.”

Zayn just smiled enigmatically. “Can you meet me by the barn after the ball?”

Harry nodded and Zayn's grin broadened, bringing his arms to wrap around Harry's shoulders. They kissed, more an exhale than anything else, and then Zayn turned, nodding to the knights who threw back their shoulders, reached for the double doors in unison, and announced the arrival of the two young princes.

 


	13. Part Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Zayn seemed sure that even his distance would now be a thing of the past. Zayn said they were a team – partners. Equals. Harry hadn't believed Zayn in the moment, but maybe this gift would prove that Harry could."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks to Fee, Rue, Emily and Grace for reading over this chapter. You're all amazing and this fic would be a jumbled mess of conflicting events without your help and patience!
> 
> Also, so, so, SO much thanks to [Noah](http://invisibleinnocence.tumblr.com/) for providing [artwork for this chapter](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/post/111050602376/chase-the-devil-part-twelvezayn-seemed-sure-that). If you aren't already, follow Noah on Tumblr and make sure to [read how you can commission Noah for a piece of your own](http://invisibleinnocence.tumblr.com/post/102714580271)!

The night's revelries were already well underway by the time Zayn and Harry made their way inside of the ballroom. The hall was sumptuously decorated with what looked like hundreds of tall, white candles and long, extravagant fabrics draping from the ceiling and hanging from the walls. Towards the back, against the high table, were several purple banners, each emblazoned with the Malik family insignia, the now familiar image of a silver female dragon protecting her egg.

Harry could not remember the last time the castle had seemed so vibrant and alive – not since his and Zayn's wedding, perhaps. But that day last summer had been its own sort of festival, a holiday that not only spelled the beginning of Harry's new life, but also the end of a war that had plagued two kingdoms for decades. Harry smiled wryly to himself as he considered that the two occasions might not be entirely comparable.

Cheers and applause rang through the ballroom as Zayn and Harry were introduced, and then the two boys were hastily shuttled over to the high table to begin the banquet. King Yaser and Queen Trisha were already seated and Zayn and Harry greeted both of them warmly with encompassing hugs and kisses pressed to cheeks. Harry took his customary place next to Zayn, but their chairs, which were typically fairly simple high-backed pieces of furniture, had been exchanged with more extravagant constructions, slightly smaller versions of the thrones that the King and Queen were currently occupying. Harry exchanged a smirk with Zayn before taking his seat, grinning when Zayn laid a warm hand high on Harry's knee and tucked a strand of curly chestnut hair behind Harry's ear.

Harry felt simultaneously giddy and wary, buoyant from his and Zayn's reconciliation in the alcove, but also hesitantly curious to see what else Zayn had in store for the night. Harry could not help but wonder what more Zayn could even provide for Harry at this point. Zayn had already gifted Harry with horses, clothes, jewelry, a private estate along the coast, a tutor from the university, an exceptionally high standard of living – Harry's entire life seemed like an especially dreamy chapter from the Knight-Errant's tales. Zayn did fall short in providing the one thing Harry needed more than anything else – constant companionship – but at the very least, Zayn certainly attempted to make up for his shortcomings with _things_.

And Zayn seemed sure that even his distance would now be a thing of the past. Zayn said they were a team – partners. Equals. Harry hadn't believed Zayn in the moment, but maybe this gift would prove that Harry could.

Harry smiled at the servants as they brought out the first course meal, plates of cheeses and meats, and tried to put his worries out of his mind as the banquet began.

  


There were several courses of food, and then servants cleared out tables and shuttled in musicians who arranged themselves toward the front of the ballroom. The music began and people rushed onto the now cleared floor in order to dance, drink, and socialize. Harry dragged Zayn out to join with their people, but Zayn very quickly excused himself, pressing a kiss to Harry's cheek and apologizing for his personal aversion to dancing. Harry shrugged and tried not to pout as Zayn left him, but Harry very quickly got caught up in the soaring melodies, losing track of Zayn in the swirl of bodies and the swell of music.

  


Harry was not sure how long he amused himself with dance, but at some point Harry noticed Nick and Niall occupying a small round table across the hall. It seemed like months since the last time Harry had the opportunity to speak with his countrymen, and Harry could feel his lips stretch wide at the familiar sight they made across the room, blonde and black hair bent together. Harry sauntered his way through the crowd in order to settle down at the table with them. Both men were pink-cheeked with drink and dance, hands cupped around exceptionally large pints of beer, and they grinned as Harry took a seat next to Nick.

“Why, if it isn't the young Prince, deigning to mingle with the rest of his court,” Nick exclaimed, gasping with put-upon surprise and causing Niall to devolve into a fit of giggles. “What a sight, Your Highness!”

“Oh, shut it,” Harry answered, red blooming across his cheeks. “I've been busy.”

Niall rolled his eyes and took a long, noisy gulp of his beer. Harry pouted at him before turning his gaze back to Nick, who had his lips pursed skeptically. “Busy? With what?”

Harry lifted his shoulder, glancing around the rest of the ballroom to gauge how much attention others were paying them. All of court seemed otherwise occupied, either with food or drink or dance, wealthy and typically dignified noblemen united in a display of uncoordinated movements and unfocused eyes. The music was loud and increasingly raucous, boisterous enough that Harry felt comfortable being frank with his friends.

“Busy making a place for myself,” Harry settled upon saying, leaning back in his seat and quirking an eyebrow.

Nick furrowed his brow but it was Niall who actually spoke. “Like the plan we discussed when Nick first came to court?” Niall clarified. “Finding out how we can provide you and Prince Zayn with an heir?”

“Yes,” Harry acknowledged. “Amongst other things.”

A wicked smile dashed across Nick's face. “You do realize you must tell us everything.”

Harry nodded. “Of course.”

“Should I go find Liam?” Niall asked. “It would be more expedient to tell all of us at once – ”

Harry shook his head and interrupted Niall with a quiet but firm, “No.”

Niall's face fell immediately. “What – ?”

“He's fallen out of my favor.”

Nick's eyes flashed dark and Harry watched as Niall's face ran through a series of emotions, from hurt to confusion to resignation. Nick finally sighed, rearranged his chair, and pulled his seat closer to Harry. Niall grabbed his own pint cup and came to stand in front of Nick and Harry. To anyone else, it would look like a casual gesture, a friend wanting to better hear a conversation over the roar of strings and winds, but Harry recognized it for the defensive action it truly was. Harry smiled and nodded his approval, licking his lips as he thought over the best way to summarize the whirlwind of events that had occurred over last few weeks.

“I took Nick's advice and began speaking to Zayn's friends,” Harry began. “First I arranged a meeting with Lady Swift, but she did not provide me with much information to work with. Just old gossip – cruel rumors and the like. But one of these rumors really upset me – Nick, you recall my turmoil. I was leaving Nick's quarters and saw a familiar face exiting Liam's rooms at the same time. Mind you, it was quite late at night. There was only one real reason why anyone would be leaving Liam's quarters at that hour with mussed hair and love bites. And I went cold realizing who it was, because the familiar face was Louis'.”

Niall's eyes bulged and even Nick seemed taken aback. “Liam and _Tomlinson_ – ?”

“I had a word with Liam not long after I made this discovery,” Harry continued. “I encouraged him to stop it, and he might have, but I can't trust him right now. He's the reason so much of my business has made its way out to the rest of court. I'm sure of it. But that – that's not what I really need to talk to both of you about.”

Niall shook his head in disbelief. “Liam's been bedding the Prince's bastard half-brother but _that's_ not what you need to talk to us about? Bloody hell.”

“No, it's not,” Harry answered ruefully. “Because after I noticed Louis leaving Liam's rooms, I cornered him. Asked him about some of the awful rumors Lady Swift mentioned. And instead he threw another new bit of information my way. He told me that Zayn's old betrothed was coming to court and I very quickly realized this was old information to everyone _but_ me.”

Nick sneered, muttering something that sounded dangerously like, “ _Typical_.”

“Yes, well. I then spoke to Queen Trisha about it. Apparently the Queen has been very worried about me and my well-being. I dropped a few gems – told her that I was missing home and desperately wanted to provide Zayn with an heir. I also mentioned that I did not feel like Zayn was confiding in me like he should.”

“Laid it on thick, didn't you?” Niall quipped. “But did she believe you?”

“I'm sure that she did,” Harry answered. “She said that she would have a word with Zayn. And – and he's been lovely ever since.”

Harry averted his eyes and took a sip from Nick's pint cup once he realized that he had completely omitted the drama between he and Zayn over the Edwards girl. Harry was fine with discussing almost every aspect of his life with Nick and Niall – they were two of his closest and dearest friends, boys that he had known since childhood. But admitting to a jealousy so encompassing and consuming that Harry had actually burned Zayn's things and then almost did _something_ with Louis was not something Harry felt entirely comfortable divulging. Harry hadn't even known he was capable of such wild behavior, of ever perceiving a betrayal so deeply that he felt compelled to commit an act of violence, of destruction, and emotional self-harm. Harry didn't want Nick and Niall to know anything about it. Harry didn't want _anyone_ to know. Those were moments just for Harry. His own dark, ugly secret.

“What has Prince Zayn done to win over your trust so quickly then?” Nick demanded. “Just weeks ago you were worried that he might cause you some harm. What changed?”

“I never believed he would cause me harm – ”

“Harry, please,” Niall interrupted. “We were all there. You were _terrified_.”

“I was not,” Harry squawked. “I – I was concerned, certainly. But I was not terrified. I've never been scared of Zayn.”

“Harry,” Nick tried again. “What has the Prince done? Did he take you to bed? Let him do whatever sordid thing came to mind?”

“ _No_ – ”

“Are you sure about that?” Niall asked, leering as he took another drink from his pint glass. “Because Lady Calder _swore_ that she saw you two in an alcove when she had to dart out of the ballroom to retrieve her mask, and you do smell rather sweaty.”

Harry could feel himself flush. “It isn't like that.”

Niall was biting back a laugh when he inquired, “Then what _is_ it like?”

“He asked me to come up to his room,” Harry answered all in a rush. “And then he introduced me to a witch.”

Nick blinked at Harry while Niall's face went dark and cloudy. “A witch?” Niall asked before lowering his voice to a whisper. It was almost impossible to hear him over all of the music. “Like – like Lady Flack?”

Harry bit at his own lip and nodded, fighting down another spasm of guilt. Neither Nick nor Niall knew that Harry was still in communication with Caroline and that he had been for years. They certainly did not know that Caroline had followed Harry to Jinan and was still watching over him. Harry and Caroline's relationship had been such a scandal back in Holmes, one that had put a legitimate strain on Harry and his mother's relationship, and as far as both Nick and Niall were concerned, Caroline had used her powers to manipulate Harry's affections before vanishing from court entirely. Harry never saw any benefit in correcting their perceptions of Caroline.

Harry cast his eyes around the ballroom and for a moment all he could think about were the ways that he and Zayn were alike. Two prim and proper royals with tiny blue treasure chests full of secrets. But Harry was better at hiding his furtiveness, could trick people into thinking he was a hopeless, hapless little boy. Zayn was so quiet, it was easy to assume that he was always up to something. Harry's perceived affability and stupidity was potentially the only edge Harry had over his husband.

“She's his protector,” Harry continued, scratching at the inside of his arm. “It's – she isn't like Caroline. She's benevolent and she said that now I am her charge, too.”

“Charge?” Niall echoed. “What – what does that mean?”

“She would watch over him,” Nick continued, his eyes still drawn together in something approximating a scowl. “But did you clarify with the witch? Ask for more details regarding the terms of her relationship with Prince Zayn? Inquire as to where she is from? Who the other members of her coven are? Ask the witch for the name of her maker?”

Harry frowned, trying to parse through Nick's words. He had been speaking rapidly and urgently. Ask about other witches? Covens? Those were never details Harry had bothered with in his relationship with Caroline. Why would Harry even think to ask Rebecca these things either? _Should_ he have?

“No?” Harry answered, feeling himself blanch underneath Nick's assessing eyes. “Is that – are those the sorts of questions you are supposed to ask a witch?”

“ _No_?” Nick repeated. “Prince Harry Edward Styles of Holmes, Duke of – ”

“I didn't know! “Please just – can you tell me? Explain to me what all of this means so I can make it right?”

Nick sighed, this long-suffering moan that reminded Harry of being young, trailing after Nick at court and crying when Nick would complain with being tasked with watching a baby. Nick was ten years older and the son of storied noblemen, a boy who did not understand the benefits of having to entertain a child, Prince or not. Their relationship grew close after Queen Anne's winter property was burned down by mercenaries, but that did not mean Nick never became exasperated with Harry or his behavior.

“Every witch worth a damn belongs to a coven of like-minded people,” Nick explained patiently. “You can gain a lot of insight into a witch and her morals by asking about her maker and the other members of her coven. I'm obviously not versed about the covens here, but you could have asked and then we would have scheduled a time to talk to Professor Sheeran.”

“I'm not sure I believe there even is such a thing as a good witch,” Niall mumbled. “King Yaser hired some of them to work as mercenaries. They're fixed with gold – same as everyone else.”

Nick shook his head. “That was wartime, Niall, and you're speaking ill of the man that is _our_ King now.”

“All I'm saying is that a witch's loyalty can be bought, coven or no,” Niall answered, taking another long gulp from his pint glass before setting it back on the table in front of Harry. “And how can we possibly know the nature of Prince Zayn's relationship with this witch? Is it a blood oath? A promise on the coven? Or is it based on treasure?”

“We'll have Harry find out,” Nick replied firmly. “If she is indeed sworn to protect Harry – ”

“Those are just words!” Niall interrupted. “Lady Flack swore that she came to court to protect Harry as well, and we all saw how that panned out.”

Harry chewed on his lip and tried not to fidget in his seat. All of this talk about Caroline was making him nervous, almost as though having her name repeated so many times would conjure her in the middle of the ballroom. Knowing Caroline and her flair for the dramatics, it would.

“Either way, I was outsmarted,” Harry mumbled with a wan smile. “I – I thought I was getting on higher footing with Zayn but you have both proved otherwise.”

“You didn't know,” Niall said softly. Pityingly. As though Harry was a failing child whose struggling efforts still deserved to be recognized and applauded. Harry fought against the scowl that was threatening to cloud his face.

“Just _please_ give us the opportunity to actually help you,” Nick jumped in, resting his hand on Harry's knee. “I don't know how many times we've said this already, Harry, but that is what we are here for.”

“I know, I know,” Harry muttered, standing and pushing his chair back, the wood scraping against the tiles as the current song ended and applause rang throughout the ballroom. Harry promptly decided that he was done with this conversation, instead casting his eyes around the room, desperately attempting to catalog Zayn's current location.

“Where are you going?” Niall asked, worrying his bottom lip in between his teeth.

“Zayn asked to meet me tonight,” Harry answered distantly, finally pinpointing Zayn across the ballroom, lounging casually against one of the large wooden doors and fiddling with the side of his mask. Zayn gave Harry a wink before darting out of the doors, his robes snapping like thunderclouds as he moved.

“Be careful,” Nick advised, but Harry was already making his way through the crowd to follow his husband.

  


Harry had almost reached the large double doors when he felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder. Harry blinked at the long fingers uncomprehendingly before turning around, something heavy sinking into his stomach when he realized who it was.

“Ah, just the man I was looking for,” Louis said, smiling so wide and openly it _almost_ looked like he was happy to see Harry. Perhaps he legitimately was – Harry had no way of knowing for sure. But Louis did look smart, a blue sparkling mask affixed to his face and dressed in a silky black robe.

Harry knew that Louis was tremendously wealthy, raised by a family with longstanding ties to the throne and now a Duke in his own right, but sometimes Harry almost forgot, could pretend as though Louis was another boy trained in the monasteries and befriended by a royal, just like Niall. Now, however, Harry could not help but notice the wild, focused energy vibrating off Louis' body even as he sank into a bow. This was a man of means who had learned to control himself and how to present the best possible face to the public. It was both terrifying and intriguing, this dualism within Louis' personality. It was a skill Harry had always envied in some members of court, their ability to be both prominent and in the shadows. There certainly were advantages to being one of the men behind the crown. “Always a pleasure, Your Highness.”

“Duke Tomlinson,” Harry acknowledged, quirking an eyebrow. “I take it you have been enjoying the festivities?”

“Most certainly. Just as I am sure you have been enjoying the Night of Masks as well. You certainly smell as though you have,” Louis remarked. “Your Highness, why is it that every time I see you, you absolutely _reek_ of semen? Is that your preferred fragrance? Is it your actual intention to smell less like a royal and more like the back room of a whorehouse?”

“Why, I only hope to smell as lovely and fragrant as you, Duke Tomlinson,” Harry replied blandly. Harry had to actually stop himself from rubbing at his cheek, remembering the last time he and Louis had been alone together. Louis seemed to read Harry's thoughts, grinning large and completely superficially.

“Don't worry, I'm not here to hit you this time,” Louis said. “I just wanted to keep you abreast of the most recent developments. It's done.”

Harry had absolutely no idea what the hell Louis was talking about and was sure that fact was evident on his face, even with a mask digging uncomfortably into his cheeks. “What?”

“You know,” Louis said, tilting his head meaningfully. “Your little _problem_? It's not coming to court.”

It still took a few moments for Harry to catch on, and once he did, he couldn't help but feel silly. What else could Louis even be talking about but Zayn's betrothed and the favor Harry had asked of Louis? Although now, all of it almost seemed like a dilemma from another life. Harry felt relieved by the news nonetheless, exhaling and feeling stress seep out of his pores. “You – you're sure?”

Louis smiled wolfishly. “Very much so.”

“What happened? What did you do?”

“ _I_ didn't _do_ anything,” Louis replied, chancing a lazy glance about the rest of the ballroom. People were watching them far more curiously than when Harry had been talking with Nick and Niall, but Harry knew that was because of the rumors that had always swirled through court about he and Louis. Harry felt confident that Zayn would not think anything of it, and that was all that mattered at this point. “I simply told a few old friends that she would be on the road.”

Harry felt his blood run cold. He realized very suddenly that he had never specified what he wanted to be done with the warrior girl. Harry had only stated that he did not want her to come to court. Those were very, very broad instructions.

“You didn't have her k– ?”

“ _No_ ,” Louis interrupted, pursing his lips. “Do I look that sloppy and careless to you? Like I said, I just told a few old friends that she and her people would be traveling south.”

“So she's alive?” Harry gulped. “Alive but just – not coming here?”

Louis lifted a lazy shoulder. “Something like that.”

“Is she being held – ?”

“Harry,” Louis said, and his voice was sharp and commanding enough that Harry immediately found himself falling quiet. “The less you know, the better. Ignorance is bliss and all that. So just find solace in playing your typical oblivious boy part and leave the rest to me, hmm?”

Harry ignored the jab and nodded, but he still felt absolutely sick to his stomach at the thought that he had played a part in engineering – well, _something_. Something like an ambush. A kidnapping. Maybe even a murder.

“Aw, don't frown, Your Highness,” Louis said, tipping a hand underneath Harry's chin and baring his teeth viciously. “If there's blood on anyone's hands, it's not on mine or yours. It all comes down to _another_ Duke and his Lady exacting their revenge.”

Louis slipped away and Harry took a deep breath, fighting against the creeping fear that he had climbed out of the sea only to be dragged underneath tumultuous currents once more.

  


Harry tried to make his way to the exit again, but he was very quickly accosted by another pair of noblemen. Harry was _exhausted_ , stifling yawns against the palm of his hand and rubbing fists against bleary eyes. Harry certainly knew how to make small talk, but these noblemen in particular were on a whole other level of dull. Harry was scanning the high table as the men droned on about some troubles in the Sawsan territory, his eyes floating over the King and Queen, who were bent close together. Harry watched them for several long moments, feeling something hot settle in his guts at the sight.

Harry's own mother and father had a very complicated relationship when they were both alive, living apart more often than not. Harry's mother had been lucky – she had not been betrothed as a very young girl, but she had been pressured to select a husband the moment she came of age. Harry's father had been an enterprising military man and quite a bit older than the young Princess. Des Styles had been a smart selection if not much of a love match.

But Harry had heard how King Yaser sailed the sea in order to meet a woman that other royals had cast off – a woman who had a torrid affair at a young age and birthed a bastard child. Harry had heard how King Yaser and Queen Trisha fell in love instantly, and Harry had witnessed for himself how harmoniously they ruled together.

Harry wanted the exact same thing.

Harry nodded to himself, laying his hands over the two noblemen's shoulders and expressing his condolences for leaving them in the middle of such an engaging conversation. The two noblemen chuckled loudly and patted Harry on the back as he spun and exited the ballroom, tugging his mask off as he left. Harry pulled up the collar of his robes as he slipped through the double doors, giving himself a few moments to contemplate just how much he _hated_ court and all of its pretenses, but Harry knew that he would always grin and bear it for Zayn's sake.

It was brisk once Harry finally found himself outside, the air cool and biting against his face. Harry thrust his hands into the folds of his robes and lost himself in the melodic crunch of his boots against the castle grounds. The stands and constructions for the jousting tournament were still in place and ready for another few days of revelry, but without lanterns to illuminate the wood or the buzz of crowds to lend legitimacy to the architecture, the festival's structures seemed wrong and almost haunted sitting alone amongst the mazes and flora. It was strange to even think it, but hearing the wind whistle through the stands made Harry reflect upon his own particular situation here in Jinan. Harry sometimes felt like little more than a coiffured show dog, alone, incongruous and out of place. But he was still here.

Harry slowly made his way over to the barn, sinking into the familiar stench of animals and feed. Harry hadn't personally found reason to visit this region of the grounds in recent months – whenever Harry decided to go for a ride, he always asked Kevin to fetch his horse beforehand so Harry would not have to walk over to the barn himself. Now, Harry wondered why he had succumbed to such laziness. There was something comforting about hearing the animals from within, the soft whinny of horses and the yapping of dogs. Perhaps it was the universality of these creatures, of cats and goats and sheep, a reminder that even though Harry felt like an empty, neglected structure on some days, there really wasn't much fundamental difference between Harry's upbringing and his husband's.

Zayn was waiting for Harry at the main barn entrance, his own mask discarded on the ground where he was crouched on his knees and playing with a large tan dog. Harry stood back and watched Zayn rub at the dog's tummy, marveling once more over Zayn's general being. It was dark out, early in the lunar calendar, the stars sparkling against the endlessly black night sky, but looking at Zayn almost felt like gazing at a full moon, felt something akin to serenity.

Perhaps Nick and Niall were right. Perhaps Harry was foolish and continuously let himself get caught up in Zayn's beauty and comforting words. Harry could freely admit to his many shortcomings, at least internally. But could anyone truly _blame_ Harry? He'd always had a weakness for pretty things and Zayn was the finest creation Harry had ever laid his eyes on. Harry always wanted to believe the best of Zayn – well, the best of everyone, to be fair – and it was difficult for Harry to reconcile Zayn's radiance with anything but good intentions.

Zayn looked up when Harry took a hesitant step forward, grinning at Harry in a way that made butterflies erupt in Harry's stomach. Zayn stood from his crouch and the dog rolled over, wagging her tail and glancing excitedly between both Harry and Zayn. Harry smiled when the dog waddled over and settled before Harry, yipping sweetly when Harry brought a hand to pet her head.

“Is this dog your surprise?” Harry asked, turning toward Zayn with a grin.

Zayn snorted and Harry almost had to force down his own laugh – Harry was still not used to hearing such undignified noises come from Zayn. “No. She's been watching over your surprise for me, actually.” Zayn made a low clicking sound with his tongue and the dog went bounding over to Zayn, wagging her tail but still managing to look as serious as a happy, silly dog ever could. “Go get the puppy, Halima,” Zayn commanded and the dog went running through the open barn door.

“I get a puppy?” Harry asked, trying to push down his excitement.

“Of sorts,” Zayn answered stiffly, seemingly releasing a breath when Halima returned several moments later, mouth holding up a small white puppy by the scruff of her neck.

Except – it wasn't a puppy. The animal looked more like a wolf. But even _that_ wasn't right. The proportions were all wrong for it to be a normal wolf pup. The muzzle was far too long and the head was leaner, and when Halima dropped the puppy onto the ground, the animal gave a yawn, displaying a row of long, sharp, large teeth.

Harry felt something hot crackle through his bloodstream, a yearning that Harry couldn't entirely describe. Harry had seen direwolves before – his father had even discovered a litter once and entrusted Harry and Gemma to help raise the animals before releasing them back into the wild. But that had been _years_ ago, before the mercenaries and the witches came, before Harry had to give up his beloved horse, before Gemma was married off for her own safety.

Even then – Harry had never seen an albino direwolf before. Of course he had heard tales, knew that Jon Snow from the fabled War of the Five Kings had a trusted direwolf named Ghost, with white fur and blazing red eyes. Harry had grown up hearing about Winterfell and the House of Stark, and Harry always had a bit of a soft spot for Jon Snow. Their circumstances were certainly different, but now that Harry was older and an outsider himself, he could not help but find a touch of strength and comfort in Jon Snow's tale.

And now, here Harry was. Kneeling on the damp grass outside of the castle barn, arms outstretched toward a tiny, albino direwolf who sniffed at Harry's hands and burrowed herself in Harry's arms. Harry felt his face go hot and Harry buried his cheeks in the animal's fur, sniffling and reprimanding himself, stubbornly trying not to cry.

“I asked Rebecca to find you a direwolf,” Zayn said, licking over his lips. “Ever since Louis said that you had raised a litter, ever since you admitted that you knew they were real, not a myth leftover from old tales, I knew I would have to find one to make your own. There have always been rumors of packs in the far-flung territories. Rebecca finally found this pup a few days ago in the northern reaches of the kingdom. The mother and the rest of the litter had abandoned it.” Zayn smiled, a hesitant, crooked thing. “It does rather resemble Jon Snow's Ghost, doesn't it?”

Harry held the puppy closer, stroking through the animal's warm, soft fur. “Was that intentional?” Harry almost didn't want Zayn to answer. Harry didn't think he could bear to have Zayn acknowledge the _one_ glaring similarity between Harry and Jon Snow.

“Perhaps for Rebecca,” Zayn answered with a small lift of his shoulders. “But I always rather liked Jon Snow in the old tales. It's certainly not – I don't know. But do you like it? Is this okay?”

Harry nodded, choking down a sob. “Of course, Zayn. I – this is an amazing gift.”

Zayn nodded as well before crouching next to Harry. “Do you have a name for her?”

Harry smiled against the animal before placing the direwolf pup back on the ground, stroking through the fur absentmindedly. For whatever reason, Harry could only conjure one name, the same name of his favorite maiden from the Knight-Errant's tales. Tessa the Wise, one of the Knight-Errant's most cherished companions, with hair as red as the direwolf pup's eyes.

“Tessa,” Harry said, his voice ringing with finality.

“Tessa it is,” Zayn agreed. Harry turned to Zayn, running his fingers through the long, curly hairs at the nape of Zayn's neck, and brought their foreheads together, trying to communicate all of his gratitude and affection through that one, singular gesture.

  


Harry wanted to curl up with Tessa for an eternity, but the wind kicked up after about a half hour of playing with the pup. Zayn stood, his back cracking, and gently recommended that Harry take Tessa and Halima back inside of the barn so that they could rest. Harry whined but stood from his own crouch, burying his nose once more in Tessa's fur before traipsing behind Zayn and Halima into the barn.

The barn was dark now, almost freakishly so even with the lanterns burning low, but Zayn was able to navigate the stalls well enough, walking past the long rows of stables and running the palm of his hand over his favorite animals. Halima's own stall was toward the back, and the dog laid against the ground with a satisfied yap. Harry delicately laid Tessa onto the hay besides Halima, smiling to himself when the small pup curled up besides Halima's dark belly. The image made something strange stir within Harry, a wonder if that's what he and Zayn looked like together. But the analogy was all wrong at its core, so Harry instead concentrated on Zayn's wiry fingers as Zayn brought the stall door shut, securing it with a piece of rope.

Zayn and Harry were making their way back towards the barn entrance when Zayn turned to Harry with a mischievous grin, one illuminated only by the starlight sifting through the slots in the barn's wooden infrastructure. “Do you want to see something funny?”

As always, Zayn's good humor was infectious, and Harry found himself nodding along. Their boots crunched softly against the hay and gravel as Zayn veered away from the entrance, instead making his way over to a small closet. Zayn threw the door back and sifted through tools before emerging triumphantly with a bottle of wine in hand.

“I was bookish growing up,” Zayn admitted, bringing the wine bottle to his mouth and wrapping his teeth around the cork, pulling it out with a whoosh of air and a soft pop. “But my father frequently encouraged me to come down to the barn – told me to play with the animals, maybe ride a horse. Do _something_ instead of sitting with books all day. What he didn't know, was that for the longest time, I only came to the barn to raid the servants' secret wine stash.”

“Oh gods,” Harry snickered. “The young and dignified Prince Zayn, swindling cheap servant wine?”

Zayn giggled, taking a swig from the wine bottle before handing it over to Harry, who drank a generous amount as well. The wine was almost sinfully sweet, the type that tasted more of berry than the familiar tang of alcohol. “It was the perfect situation. The servants obviously knew it was me drinking all of the wine, but they could not go to my nannies with the accusation because then they would have to admit to stashing wine in the barn closet.”

Harry handed the wine bottle back to Zayn, their fingers brushing on the exchange. Harry shivered and it had nothing to do with the suddenly chilly night. “If only I could have been half as enterprising.”

“You did not play tricks on your nannies and servants?”

Harry shrugged, watching Zayn's Adam's apple bob as he continued drinking from the wine bottle. It was strange, hearing Zayn talk of _nannies_ , plural. Harry only had Lady Cole and Harry always remembered hearing members of court denigrating her supposedly poor tutoring of Harry. Sometimes Harry would think about Niall's education, how intelligent and well-versed Niall had become after his time at the monastery, and think the same. Harry knew Lady Cole did her best. It was hard – during the long years of war, many of the professors fled Holmes in search of more stable positions, taking their well-educated wives with them. There were not many women available who were capable in both child rearing and tutoring.

“Of course I tried to play tricks,” Harry replied. “But I was more the sort to throw tantrums and make demands. I was not particularly sneaky.”

Zayn grinned, a sheen of wine blanketing plump lips. “I can see why. Face like yours – there was no need for tricks. I'm sure you just smiled and got your way.”

Harry leaned in, pressing his mouth to Zayn's and licking the taste of berries from Zayn's tongue. “I know you're not talking to me about pretty faces,” Harry murmured, pulling away from the intoxicating flavor of Zayn's tongue and instead satisfying himself with the ghost of Zayn's breath against his own lips. “Your countenance ended a war.”

Zayn laughed again, the sound ringing and pure when it mixed with all of the other soft noises from the barn. “Your parents had no idea what I looked like when my father first proposed the peace betrothal.”

“Maybe my mother saw you in a dream,” Harry countered. “Maybe she heard a prophecy and never told me about it.”

Zayn hummed, taking a step back in order to drink from the bottle of wine again. “Have you ever had such dreams?”

Harry had not, had always thought that trying to derive greater meanings from dreams was a frivolous activity, but sometimes Harry managed to think quickly on his feet and take advantage of the opportunities presented to him. “Yes,” Harry lied, reaching out to run his fingers over Zayn's hip. “Although I never knew what the dreams meant, not until now.”

Zayn cocked his head to the side and licked over his lips. “How do you mean?”

Harry turned his head, biting at his own lips while he mulled over what he wanted to say. Harry was certainly pleased with the gift of the direwolf pup – it was surprisingly sweet and thoughtful, a genuine olive branch – but Harry also knew that he needed _more_ from Zayn. It was almost repetitive now, this thought that went dancing through Harry's mind, but Harry needed attention, love, _and_ security. It wasn't enough to have one or even two of those things. Harry wanted the same sort of easy intimacy that King Yaser and Queen Trisha had, the same level of friendship and concord. Harry craved genuine partnership, true equality with Zayn in both their relationship and in rule. Harry demanded totality, absolutely everything that Zayn could give him.

It sounded absolutely awful to put it in such frank terms, but Harry knew that he needed an heir, recognized that a child could help establish the bonds that would keep Zayn close. Harry needed a son, and he needed this baby _desperately_.

“I've dreamed of something like tonight,” Harry settled upon saying, turning his eyes up at Zayn and hoping they looked both bashful and open, hoped they shone as though Harry were divulging a well-kept and somewhat silly secret. “I mean – not quite like this, because you always have such a way of surprising me. But. Certainly similar.”

“A night in a barn?” Zayn asked wryly.

“No, but a happy night of celebration,” Harry continued. “With our son.”

Zayn took another long drink from his wine bottle, his face carefully blank even as he regarded Harry closely. Harry honestly had no way of knowing what Zayn was thinking. “Oh?”

Harry turned away, batting his hand as though he were truly flustered. “Oh, forget I ever said anything. You must think I'm so childish – ”

“Never,” Zayn interrupted, placing the wine bottle on the floor and instead grabbing Harry's hand with his own, interlacing their fingers. “I could never think that of you.”

Harry fought against the urge to smirk, to pump his fists and cheer, “ _I've got you right where I want you_.” Instead, Harry buried his face in Zayn's neck as though he was overcome with embarrassment.

“I just – it's been a dream of mine ever since we met,” Harry mumbled, the words flowing so easily it was almost as if Harry actually _had_ dreamed such things. “I always see it so clearly. You, me, and our son. I – a part of me hoped that your gift tonight was a baby. How could you have even engineered such a feat? It's absolute silliness!”

Zayn brought his hand to Harry's hair, tucking a strand underneath the crown that was still pressing against Harry's skull. “It's not silliness. I just. We don't have to provide an heir right now, Harry. We still haven't even fully worked through the coronation yet, nor celebrated our first anniversary.”

“I know.”

Zayn brought his hands to Harry's face, cradling Harry's cheeks and searching Harry's expression with keen, sharp eyes. “But you _want_ an heir. You want a baby.”

Harry did not even have to worry about the ticks of his face when he took a deep breath and nodded, matching Zayn's stare. Green on hazel. “I do, Zayn. I really, truly do.”

Zayn blinked, sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth and worrying at the skin there. “You must realize that I don't want to deny you anything, Harry.”

“Then don't.”

Zayn opened his mouth but he seemed to think better of it, leaning in to kiss Harry instead.

It wasn't a flat-out denial and Harry could certainly work with that, especially when he licked his way into Zayn's mouth and reached with deft fingers to untie Zayn's breeches for the second time that night, pushing the fabric to pool around Zayn's ankles.

“You're insatiable,” Zayn murmured, watching through hooded eyes as Harry sank to his knees.

“I'm just thirsty,” Harry replied coyly, reaching for the wine bottle through the dark. Harry's fingers grasped around the neck and he took another long swig while Zayn watched him with heavy, pinning eyes. Harry set the bottle back down before flicking his gaze up to consider Zayn. Harry was fascinated by the rhythmic melody of Zayn's breathing and the way his cock was already fattening with interest. Harry might not be able to spin sonnets or perform great mathematical equations, but he was certainly gifted at reading body language, and Zayn wore arousal like no one else. “And I haven't thanked you yet for Tessa.”

“You do not have to soil the knees of your breeches in order to thank me,” Zayn rejoined. “We can do this properly – in a bed. In the bath. Not in a barn.”

“Here is fine,” Harry answered, spitting along Zayn's length and ghosting his tongue along the underside. Zayn's breath hitched, his belly contracting, and Harry grinned, feeling giddy and pleased with himself. It almost didn't seem fair, using sex as a way to get what he wanted, but Harry did not have many tools at his disposal. It was probably best to stick to what he was good at.

Zayn was still sensitive from earlier, huffing quick breaths and squeezing his eyes shut whenever Harry licked and sucked along his cock. But Harry was patient and loved to tease, heady with how Zayn smelled less like himself, like the familiar oils he dabbed on his skin every morning after his bath, and more like sex and sweat. Harry particularly enjoyed licking Zayn's cock head and reacquainting himself with the salty familiarity of Zayn's skin before falling back on his haunches and grinning shyly up at Zayn. Harry felt a thrill run through his veins at Zayn's increasingly frustrated mutterings, his pleas for Harry to stop playing cruel games. And it _was_ like a game, Harry getting back at Zayn for all of the ignored advances, all of the times Zayn chose plotting with Matty or Louis or _whoever_ over spending time with Harry.

When Harry finally deigned to wrap his lips entirely around Zayn's cock and properly suck, Zayn let out a strangled sort of moan, his hands flexing to card through Harry's hair before he seemed to remember the crown that was still pinned there. Harry giggled around a mouthful of dick, swallowing and pulling off minutely to jack Zayn against his pursed lips, but Zayn growled and brought his hands to rest at the back of Harry's head. Harry smiled and stuck his tongue out, humming when Zayn guided his cock back into Harry's mouth. Harry brought his own hands to rest against Zayn's ass, digging his fingernails into the flesh, closing his eyes, and moaning when Zayn began to pump into Harry's mouth more energetically, the tip of his cock pressing against Harry's throat and testing the boundaries of Harry's gag reflex.

“ _Harry_ ,” Zayn plead and Harry opened his eyes, fixing them on Zayn's face. Zayn looked close to wrecked, absolutely sweaty and filthy, exactly how Harry preferred him. Harry swallowed wetly around Zayn's cock again, tears budding at the corner of his eyes at the effort, and Zayn screwed his eyes shut and came, his fingers tightening in Harry's hair as bitterness pulsed into Harry's mouth.

Harry swallowed down the acerbic taste before pulling off of Zayn's cock with a gasp, coughing and waiting for his own heart to stop racing. Zayn thudded his head against the closet door, cursing almost reverentially under his breath, and Harry reached once more for the bottle of wine, downing the rest of the contents and washing the taste of Zayn's come from his tongue.

  


Harry helped Zayn pull his breeches back up, pushing Zayn back against the now closed closet door and tying the laces to Zayn's trousers with trembling fingers.

“Do you want me to – ?” Zayn asked, flexing his hands to gesture at the bulge tenting Harry's own breeches.

“No,” Harry answered, licking over his lips. “Tomorrow.”

Zayn smiled, pressing his tongue against the back of his teeth, and leaned in to press his lips to Harry's. When he pulled away, his entire face was warm with affection, and he pressed his nose against Harry's and murmured, “You're _perfect_.”

Harry didn't even quite know what to say, only blinked at Zayn and buried his head in the crook of Zayn's neck. Fortunately, Harry was saved by Liam Payne of all people, who entered the barn with a lantern in hand and a scowl on his face.

“You are both far too loud to be doing _anything_ like this in public,” Liam said, embarrassment reddening his face. “The King and Queen were requesting for you two to return and call an official end to the ball, but I – uh. I think I will tell them you two went to bed?”

Harry groaned under his breath and squeezed his eyes shut, wrapping himself more firmly around Zayn's middle and willing Liam to just go away.

“I think that would be wise, Liam,” Zayn called, tapping his hands against Harry's arm. “You may go.”

Harry heard Liam's boots crunch as he retreated. Once Harry could no longer make out Liam's heavy footfalls, Harry turned to Zayn, the two boys absolutely collapsing into each other with laughter.

  


Harry and Zayn walked back to the castle together, bypassing the standard entrance and instead using a servant access to avoid potentially running into the King and Queen or any of the noblemen who had assumed the two young Princes were in bed.

“What are you going to get me for our anniversary now, then?” Harry teased, reaching down to grab Zayn's hand and swinging their interlocked fingers. Harry couldn't quite believe how chilly it was, particularly considering how mild it had been earlier in the day, but he felt warmth spread through his body as he squeezed Zayn's palm.

“I've spoiled you,” Zayn tsked, but his eyes were glittering with mirth. “There are always gifts to be found. I'm sure I will think of something.”

“For our first anniversary?” Harry gasped. “Just _something_?”

“Something splendid,” Zayn amended.

“And expensive.”

Zayn laughed, pressing the back of Harry's hand to his lips. “Yes, splendid and expensive.”

  


Zayn asked Harry to come back to his rooms for the rest of the night, but Harry declined the offer, murmuring that it would be easier to prepare for the next day of festivities if Harry rested in his own quarters. Zayn pouted but did not press the matter, walking Harry to his rooms before sweetly kissing Harry goodnight.

Harry opened the door to his quarters, shutting it quietly and leaning against the cool wood. He had almost forgotten how tired he was, but now that he was alone and in his own space, his fatigue was all he could think about. Harry retrieved his mask from the inside of his robes, carelessly tossing the damn thing onto the floor, before weaving his fingers through his hair to undo the pins keeping his crown in place. Harry was so preoccupied with this task that he hardly even noticed when a woman appeared in the middle of his main room, sweeping into Harry's space with a wagging finger and wild hair.

“You are such an insolent, _stupid_ little boy,” Caroline hissed, grabbing Harry's crown straight off his head and tossing it onto the bed behind her.

Harry squawked, but other than that he felt he did a moderately decent job of hiding his fear. “Insolent?What – what are you – ”

“I leave you for days – mere hours, truly – and when I return, you are meeting with swine and falling for every pretty little word that leaves Prince Zayn's lips,” Caroline spat. Her voice was low, but her words were so cutting that it almost felt worse than a yell. Harry felt like a child, recoiling from a woman's wrath and trying his best not to cry as he was being scolded. “Have you learned nothing? Does all of this – all of our meetings, all of our plans, all of the work I have done on your behalf – does it mean _nothing_ to you?”

Harry sputtered. “I have no idea what you're talking about, Caroline.”

“I'm talking about _you_ ,” Caroline scowled. “You and your insistence on being silly and oblivious, on believing everything the Prince tells you. You need to stop thinking with your cock for once in your vapid life and open your damn eyes.”

“I'm not thinking with my cock – ”

“Oh, of course not,” Caroline interrupted, her words oozing sarcasm. “What do you call all of your little escapades earlier, hmm? First in the alcove where anyone could see you – and _did_ , mind you – and then again in the barn?”

Harry felt as though the air had been sucked straight from his lungs. It wouldn't have been the first time Caroline had watched Harry with Zayn, but that didn't make the voyeurism any less intrusive. “You were there? Did you – did you _watch_ – ?”

“Harry, what would I gain from watching every single one of your poor decisions?” Caroline sneered. “It's nothing I haven't seen before.” Heat rushed to Harry's face and Caroline took a few steps away from Harry, shaking her hair out from her face. Caroline turned to pace about the room, her feet light and airy as she walked. “He's using you again,” Caroline mumbled. “I'm so sure of it.”

“He introduced me to a witch,” Harry blurted. “Her name was Rebecca.” Harry watched as Caroline's face clouded over, her bottom lip trembling. “That name means something to you, doesn't it? Is she a member of your coven?”

“No, _no_ , you foolish boy,” Caroline answered softly, playing with the pleats of her dress. “How do you not remember? It's not that simple.”

“But you do know her.”

Caroline nodded, the gesture short and jerky. Her entire face looked sharp and pinched, her normally radiant eyes red and bleary. Her skin was as pallid as the last time Harry saw her, and there was a soft sour scent that seemed to cling to her clothes. She was bone-weary, that much was clear.

“I decided to travel to Jinan when the rumors first swirled that you and Prince Zayn might be married as a way to end the war,” Caroline began. “The connections between covens had been disrupted during the conflict, but my own sisters were still able to provide me with names of witches who might be open to housing me.

“I took the path of the old mercenaries, traveling to the far northern reaches of the kingdom and then making my way southward to the capital. I was not far from the mountains your Prince Zayn is so fond of when I first encountered her – Rebecca. Later, she would admit that she had been tracking me from the beginning, but upon our first meeting, I believed her tale. She said that I accidentally wandered into her territory but that she was more than happy to provide me with safe haven and information about the Prince. I did not tell her much, insisted that I knew you but that we were no longer close at all. It was clear to me that she was a strong witch – sure and confident in her magic. When I left, I was more than a little in awe of her. I learned a lot from her, but I knew I could not entirely trust her.”

Harry frowned. “Why not?”

“Because she has no loyalty,” Caroline hissed. “She has no coven – she has no relations to her maker. Even the tale of how she came to know Prince Zayn – that silly tale that King Yaser offended her people – it _reeks_ of bullshit. There is something foul about that woman.”

“People have said the same about you,” Harry pointed out. “That you only came to court in order to insinuate your way close to the throne, that you were a snake in the grass – ”

“But I proved my value. I've earned your loyalty. You know this, Harry – you know that my only allegiance is to you and you alone. Rebecca? You cannot trust that woman. Use her – yes. Use her as you must use Prince Zayn. But you cannot trust her. You cannot confide in either of them. You _know_ that she's the same woman who bound Prince Zayn to that warrior Princess.”

Harry raised a shoulder at the reference to Zayn's former betrothed and bit at his lip, trying to stop a smile from spreading across his face. Louis was right – if Harry wasn't thinking about the awful things potentially being done to the girl, Harry could instead bask in the happiness knowing that the she was far, far away from his court. “I – I don't think I have to worry about her anymore.”

Caroline cocked her head to the side, her eyes searching as they scanned across Harry's face. “Oh?”

“I asked a favor.”

“You asked for her head.”

Harry scoffed. “No. Do I look like a murderer?”

Caroline rolled her eyes. “What does the common killer look like? Is there a specific look? We all have the potential.”

“I can't tell whether you are insulting me or not.”

Caroline smiled but it was far more of a grimace, an animal's flash of teeth. A reminder to Harry of her own killer potential, possibly. “I would not dare to insult you more than I already have tonight, Your Highness. But if the girl is not dead, how do you know that you no longer have to worry about her?”

Harry sighed, slapping his hands against his thighs. “Louis told me it was not something I should concern myself with.”

Caroline's eyes flashed. “And so once more you entrust your security to that rodent.”

“Caroline – ”

“I'll look into the matter myself,” Caroline huffed, releasing the same sort of long-suffering sigh that Nick had emitted earlier in the evening. “What more did the rat tell you?”

“Only that the woman and her people had been traveling on the road,” Harry said, racking his brain for more details from the hushed conversation. Louis really had been quite tight-lipped on the matter. “He also said that if there was blood on anyone's hands, it wasn't his, but another Duke and Lady. And then he walked away.”

Caroline had resumed her pacing throughout the room, but she came to a full stop and turned to regard Harry. “Another Duke and his Lady?”

Harry nodded. “Yes. I'm sure that's what he said.”

“Could he mean Duke Healy and his fiancee?” Caroline asked.

Harry frowned. “Matty and Taylor? But Taylor _hates_ Louis. What could Matty and Taylor have to do with any of this?”

“Have you not been paying attention in _any_ of those history lessons with that redheaded professor?” Caroline demanded. “Duke Healy comes from the coast – his people have been at war with that Edwards girl's family for centuries. It all mellowed when King Yaser finally conquered the last of the Northern territories, but there's been whispers of renewed conflict, particularly coming out of the Sawsan region. Perhaps Duke Healy realized this was his moment, seized the opportunity the rat presented to him.”

“But I don't understand – ”

“Don't worry yourself with the details. At the end of the day, it all comes down to ethnic conflict,” Caroline interrupted with a flick of her hand. “Figures Tomlinson would find a way to use preexisting hatreds in order to further his own personal gain.”

“But that's smart, isn't it?” Harry insisted. “If that's really what Louis did? Because then it won't be traced back to him, and if it doesn't get back to him, it certainly won't be traced back to me. It'll just be blamed on ethnic conflict.”

“It could put Duke Healy's position at court in jeopardy, particularly if he did something that went against King Yaser's wishes.” Caroline whistled lowly, rubbing her hands against her temple. All of her movements were sharp and sudden. Harry almost wanted to scold her and tell her to rest, but he knew Caroline would only bark at him in return. “King Yaser doesn't want to be a war king anymore. He'd much rather keep the peace, although there have been rumblings that some want from under King Yaser's yoke. All of it – it's tinkering with a system that is already extremely fragile. See, Harry? That's the danger of this monarchy. Everyone at this court is so self-entitled and absolutely nobody is _entirely_ loyal to King Yaser. It's all a dirty game.”

“Well, it's not as though Holmes ended up much better off, hmm?” Harry muttered. “But that's neither here nor there. So. First we need to figure out if Matty and Taylor are truly involved in all of this or not.” Harry sighed, combing through all of the information swirling through his brain and desperately attempting to make sense of it all. “Can you do that for me, Caroline? Search through Matty and Taylor's things and find out where they have stowed away this warrior girl?”

“It's as good as done, Harry,” Caroline replied. “And you'll promise me that you will keep Prince Zayn at a distance? Use him, of course, but don't you dare let him deceive you.”

Harry nodded, grabbing Caroline's hand and squeezing her palm. Her hands were cold and clammy but Harry did not shudder at the contact. “I swear I shall do my best.”

“Which means you'll be in his bed again in the morning,” Caroline sighed.

And in the blink of an eye, Caroline was gone and Harry was alone.

 


	14. Part Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Harry may have been naïve and silly when it came to matters of the heart, but he could still be sly and determined when he needed to be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I can apologize enough for how long it's taken me to get this chapter up. I hope this chapter is meaty enough to make up for the long wait!
> 
> Endless and eternal thanks to the usual suspects - Rue, Fee, Emily, and Grace for reading over the chapter in all of its various iterations. Special thanks as well to Camie for the [fabulous edit](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/post/120586699196/chase-the-devil-part-thirteen-harry-may-have), as well as to Noah for helping me think about art for last chapter and this one. And of course, thanks to all of you for sticking with me and asking me things here and on Tumblr. I really do appreciate it!

The Festival of Masks came and went in a stream of banners and a flurry of parties, the entirety of Jinan warm and buoyant with revelry. Harry spent the rest of the festival floating on a personal high, making his way about court blissfully drunk, his crown askew and his hands desperately clutched in Zayn's. Harry knew that he should be heeding Caroline's words and holding onto his promise, knew that he should keep Zayn at a distance and maintain his guard while things still remained uncertain, but Harry lost himself in food and drink nonetheless, basking in the warmth of his new direwolf pup's fur and the tranquil honey of Zayn's eyes.

Harry was _happy_. He was happy dancing every night and watching games every afternoon. He was happy tumbling into bed with Zayn, digging fingernails down the sweaty planes of Zayn's back and sucking dark bruises along the fine column of Zayn's neck. It was a silly happiness, yes, one ultimately based on superficiality and inebriation, but Harry sunk into it wholeheartedly, with rosy cheeks and glasses held up in cheers.

The festival concluded with one last raucous ball and almost immediately court began to prepare for the next round of parties to celebrate Zayn's twentieth birthday. Zayn's birthday was a holiday recognized by the entire kingdom, and the looming date coupled with a redecoration of the castle made nervousness tingle up Harry's spine.

The days leading up to Zayn's birthday passed in a sunny and anxious blur. Harry and Zayn were _finally_ on what felt like tremendous footing with each other. They were meeting every day, playing with Tessa and all of Zayn's animals and occasionally taking their rides together. It almost felt like Harry was living in a child's tale, the world becoming new and beautiful again as the days hurtled toward spring, and Harry knew all of his happiness was because of Zayn's smile and the softness of his hands.

Consequently, Harry began to feel pressure to acquire a gift that would fully encapsulate his fondness and gratitude for Zayn's renewed commitment to their relationship. It seemed like the least Harry could do. Harry had even arranged a meeting with one of the capital's most famed bankers, just to guarantee that Harry could afford whatever it was he decided upon. Unfortunately, Harry thought himself unable to find a gift that would ever measure up to all that Zayn had provided for Harry. Already resigned, Harry met up with Nick and Niall one day to brainstorm ideas.

“Perhaps you should ask one of the Princesses,” Niall suggested. The sun was harsh and blazing, the slight chill of the last few months dissipating entirely. It was almost as punishingly hot as it had been when Harry first arrived at court last summer, any and all pretenses of winter vanishing underneath the scalding rays of Jinan's sun. Harry heard rumors at court that Jinan was about to face a long summer, the likes of which had not been seen in more than a century.

Harry, Nick, and Niall had attempted to get a ride in before the heat made the activity unbearable, with Tessa barking and keeping pace at their side, but around midday the height and ferocity of the sun approximated something close to torture, so the boys decided to go for a leisurely stroll through the castle gardens instead.

Harry hummed in acknowledgment of Niall's suggestion, cradling Tessa to his chest and fanning himself lazily with his free arm. Harry knew that he was becoming a bit of a joke amongst some at court – the young Prince Consort obsessed with parading his expensive and rare direwolf pup everywhere he went – but Tessa was beautiful and her presence, the softness of her fur and her padding footsteps at his side, legitimately made Harry feel grounded. She wouldn't be tiny enough to carry around for much longer, anyway, so Harry felt justified in this tiny indulgence, even if it did make Harry look like a bit of a prat.

“Princess Waliyha is always receptive,” Harry noted. His thoughts and words seemed sluggish, the movement of his lips even slower than usual as a side effect of the heat. “What do you think, Nick? You're quite close to Princess Doniya, aren't you?”

Nick pursed his lips in thought. Truth be told, Nick was close to almost everyone of importance in court. It was impressive how quickly he was able to form friendships, but Nick had always had a quick wit and charming air about him, and he never let the initial language barrier get in the way. Now, he spoke with a slight lisping accent, same as the rest of Harry's countrymen from Holmes, but Nick managed to make even _that_ sound sophisticated and dignified.

“Honestly, if you are hoping that this gift will be another way to get into Zayn's good graces, the most direct thing to do might be to schedule an appointment with the Queen,” Nick answered. “You could have one of the Princesses there as a buffer, but you want the Queen on your side either way. You could use it as another opportunity to talk to the Queen about an heir, especially since you and Zayn have discussed it a few times recently.”

Tessa sneezed against Harry's chest and Harry ran his finger through the pup's fur as he weighed Nick's words. Following the Festival of the Masks, Harry had put more effort into soliciting Niall and Nick's advice, and had gotten both men more involved in Harry's own personal machinations at court. Harry told both of them all about the night he spent with Zayn at the barn, and while the boys squawked at some of the sordid details, they also applauded Harry's quick thinking when Harry spoke of his desire to have a child. In the days afterward, Harry made more of an effort to revisit the topic with Zayn, as well. Zayn still maintained that they had plenty of time to procure an heir, but at least the seed had been planted. Harry figured he would be able to wear Zayn down soon enough.

“You're probably right, Nick,” Harry said. “And I haven't spoken privately with the Queen in some time. Perhaps I can see her tomorrow for breakfast and then we can discuss everything afterward?”

Nick and Niall exchanged a look before both stating that they would be free the next afternoon. All three boys made their way back to the castle for their midday meal, and Harry managed to only sneer slightly when they passed Louis and Liam roughhousing by the barn, the two sweaty, smiley, and in _very_ high spirits.

  


Queen Trisha was a very busy woman. She was constantly entertaining diplomats and other visitors, and was tasked with guaranteeing that the entirety of her court ran smoothly. For any other man, this knowledge might be intimidating, but Harry was becoming far more comfortable using his position and title to his advantage. So it was fairly easy for Harry to make his way over to his mother-in-law before dinner and ask if they could have breakfast together in the morning. The Queen smiled at Harry, squeezing Harry's neck reassuringly with a bejeweled hand, before stating that she was free and more than happy to see Harry bright and early the next day. Harry kissed the Queen on the cheek, smiled blindingly, and made his way to his seat, but not before overhearing Queen Trisha call one of her Ladies over to cancel her morning appointment with Duchess So-and-So.

  


The following morning, Harry awoke with a yawn and a stretch, the sun's warm rays slicing across his skin. He bathed, dressed in new robes that had recently arrived from some famed dresser along the coast, and told Kevin to make sure Tessa was fed and in Harry's quarters by the time Harry returned from his breakfast with the Queen.

A servant escorted Harry up to the Queen's wing of the castle, letting Harry into the tea room and informing him that Queen Trisha would be joining him shortly. Harry looked over the food the kitchens had sent up for breakfast while he waited, selecting a slice of fluffy cake and pouring himself a cup of tea while he let his mind wander. Being in Queen Trisha's rooms always reminded Harry of his own mother, and Harry let himself chase the ghost of a memory, a brief snatch of a conversation that Harry might have even invented entirely.

When the Queen finally emerged, it was with a waft of perfume and in a plume of green fabrics that swirled with her every movement. She was always exquisitely dressed, the epitome of style, luxury, and grace, but today she was wearing one of her simpler gold wedding bands, twirling the metal around her finger before she sat down across from Harry. She assembled a plate for herself before launching immediately into conversation, asking Harry how he had been doing and whether he enjoyed the festival a few weeks ago. The conversation was easy and relaxing, the sort of banter that any man would hope to have with the mother of his spouse.

“It is reassuring to know that you have been doing so well over the past few weeks,” Queen Trisha gushed. “I was so worried – you have been through so much in the short time you have been here. But I take it you have been in good health?”

“I have been, Your Highness,” Harry replied. “And I do appreciate you taking the time to check in on me. Your kindness and attentiveness has truly been a blessing over these past few months.”

“It's no worry, son,” Queen Trisha smiled. “But now, I must inquire: Why have you asked to see me? You have not already found yourself a little heir, have you?”

Harry could feel redness rush to his face as he took in the excited gleam in Queen Trisha's eyes. Harry obviously knew that the Queen was not opposed to Harry's idea of procuring an heir, but Harry hadn't considered that Queen Trisha might actually be _excited_ by the prospect of having a grandson running about the castle. Harry knew from hearsay that Princess Doniya had no immediate plans of having a child with her handsome husband lest some factions demand that the baby become King instead of Zayn. Harry had never considered what this decision meant for the rest of the royal family, but it was entirely possible that Queen Trisha's hopes of having a grandchild had passed over from Princess Doniya onto Harry. Harry was unsure whether he should be pleased or terrified.

“No, no, Your Highness. I have not given much more thought to the idea. Zayn is not entirely ready and I do not want to rush him,” Harry sputtered. “My concerns – or thoughts, I suppose, are much more immediate. I was wondering if you had any suggestions as to what I should get Zayn for his birthday.”

Queen Trisha's smile dimmed but did not entirely fade. Harry almost felt guilty, but Harry had to remind himself that he wasn't the one who was opposed to having an heir. Zayn was the jam on this particular matter, and if Queen Trisha did indeed desire a grandchild soon, she could speak to her son about it.

“Zayn is always excited by art,” Queen Trisha began thoughtfully. “A commission would excite him, or patronage of a new artist. We had to cut back on art patronage over the last few years, as you can imagine. And Zayn is quite bookish, as well. So any new manuscripts would be very appealing to him.”

Harry hummed. He had considered both of these ideas already, but neither had seemed opulent enough. Zayn was all about showmanship, about gifts that were flashy and rare. Hell, he had just managed to find Harry a gift that many in _both_ their kingdoms believed was either extinct or a myth. Harry was sure that he would not be able to find anything for Zayn that would measure up, but Harry was still certainly going to try.

“Are there any other things that I could get your son?” Harry pressed. “I looked into my own personal accounts, and I think I could splurge a little. Just to show Zayn how important he is to me.”

Queen Trisha smiled wryly, her eyes glinting with mischief. It was the same playful grin that often passed across her son's face. Or, both her sons, rather. “Well, I have been in talks with the Chancellor for the University,” Queen Trisha began. “They would like to launch a new library. I told them I would gladly donate manuscripts and heirlooms from my own personal collection.”

Harry screwed his face up in confusion, but he felt his countenance relax once he caught onto Queen Trisha's line of thought. Professor Sheeran had stopped by court to briefly discuss this same proposed library. Apparently, the University wanted to expand one of its departments to include the study of Holmes and its surrounding territories. It was sweet, a nice peacetime gesture towards Harry, his countrymen at court, and the other refugees that were increasingly appearing in Jinan in search of asylum, but the idea also annoyed Harry slightly because Holmes didn't even truly _exist_ now. Earl George – Emperor George, whatever the hell the madman was calling himself – had guaranteed that Holmes was no longer the Kingdom of Harry's memories, but was instead a land of blood and genocide. But, Harry had to admit that if the University was insistent upon creating this library and expanding its studies, he rather liked the idea of it being named after his husband. A library dedicated in honor of Prince Zayn, the one several were already referring to as the Peace Prince.

“I told the Chancellor that King Yaser and I would provide personal funds to help get the library started,” Queen Trisha continued. “This, of course, would be in addition to the funds from the public trust. But perhaps you can contribute as well?”

“Would the library be named after Zayn?” Harry asked.

“I'm sure they would do whatever you asked of them,” Queen Trisha answered with a slight wave of her hand. “The library is essentially in recognition of you and your people. If you wanted it to be named after Zayn and not yourself, they would have to consider your request.”

Harry clucked his tongue and drummed his fingernails on the table. “And you think Zayn would like this?”

“Zayn will like anything you do for him,” Queen Trisha murmured softly. “But you know how he is. He's very concerned about the legacy he will leave behind.”

The image of Zayn standing beside the Iron Throne flashed across Harry's mind and Harry felt his hands clutch the fork in his hand so hard the metal pinched into his skin. Harry hadn't considered that encounter in _months_ , but the memory still made bitter bile rise in Harry's throat.

Harry laid his fork down on the table and changed the subject, smiling blithely as he and Queen Trisha began discussing the latest fashion, court gossip, and Matty and Taylor's upcoming wedding ceremony on the coast.

  


Harry made his way back to his quarters after the meeting with Queen Trisha, his boots echoing through the halls and his mind almost entirely lost in thought. The Queen's words were still ringing in his ears – “ _But you know how he is. He's very concerned about the legacy he will leave behind_.” Harry wished he knew what the Queen was really getting at. What _did_ Zayn have in mind for his legacy? And how did Harry fit into his plans?

Whenever Harry thought of the word “legacy,” the once familiar image of his father's warm features floated to mind. For Harry, growing up the son of a recognized and respected warrior king was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, Harry never had to worry about being unsafe as a child, even with the threat of war constantly humming in the background. His father's prowess on the battlefield had reached mythical proportions well by the time Harry was born, so Harry grew up hearing stories about his father's strength, agility, and ferocity. However, the King's multitude of achievements also meant that Harry was raised with the expectation of inheriting his father's skills.

Harry was trained by the best soldiers and honestly tried his best, but he would _always_ be clumsy and awkward. He floundered at hand-to-hand combat and struggled with archery. Harry was decent at fencing and swordplay, could haul up all of his strength and hack through the muscle and tissue of the dead pig Harry's father would make him practice with, but all-in-all, Harry was a disappointment. King Des tried to pretend as though he was not crestfallen, but they both knew the truth.

Once King Des reconciled himself with Harry's combat ineptitude, the King switched tactics and instead tried to instill lessons about fair rule and maintaining a legacy, scheduling long talks with Queen Anne about how to get Harry's tutoring up to par since Harry's only hope was to be a diplomatic ruler. Harry found the resulting lectures even less interesting than the hours of combat training that his father had previously insisted upon, but Harry _did_ want to impress the King, so he tried his best, cramming his brain full of facts and figures he couldn't even entirely understand the importance of.

When King Des was killed and the kingdom scrambled to find a husband for Harry's mother, Harry bitterly thought that all of the talks – the hours of harangue and lectures on the importance of creating one's legacy – were meaningless. King Des had spent so much time and energy concentrating on how he would be viewed when he was gone, and ultimately it seemed as though it was all in vain. Queen Anne and King Robin would receive all of the recognition for ending the war. King Des' years of rule, his fearlessness and dedication, would be nothing more than a minor note. Another King whose dexterity and achievements would be forgotten with the slow passage of time.

But perhaps Harry should have paid better attention to the wisdom his father had desperately attempted to impart. Then Harry would certainly understand Zayn – and his motivations – much better.

  


The rest of Harry's day passed laconically. Harry returned to his room, composed a letter to the Chancellor of the University pledging his support for the proposed library, played with Tessa, had dinner, and then met up with Nick and Niall for drinks in Harry's rooms afterward. Harry was absolutely exhausted by the time he bid Nick and Niall goodnight, but he also knew that Zayn would probably want to see him soon for one of the night talks that had now become part of their routine, so Harry asked the servants to draw a bath and fought against the fatigue that weighed down his eyelids.

It had been dusk for hours by the time Zayn finally made his way to Harry's rooms, closing the door with a groan and throwing himself against Harry's bed. Harry, who had been reading a manuscript by candlelight, wound his fingers through Zayn's hair, scratching against his scalp idly.

“It's always such a journey coming up to your rooms so late at night,” Zayn yawned, his face half buried in Harry's blankets. “I wish you weren't so far away.”

Harry hummed, raising his knees to close the manuscript without having to remove his fingers from Zayn's hair. “Your meetings ran late again?”

“Yes. There's been all sorts of troubling news from the distant territories. And Holmes. Disappearances and the like.”

Harry bit at his bottom lip. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Zayn tilted his head, glancing up at Harry with wide, hazel eyes. He was so beautiful in the low light, like something out of a painting. It made a silly thought run through Harry's mind, a brief wondering if that was what they really were – two renderings, two characters that hardly knew each other at all.

Harry appreciated that Zayn was trying harder to include Harry in his meetings and discussions, but sometimes it felt like they were just playing parts. Harry still had a hard time knowing what Zayn was thinking more often than not. Just like right now.

“We should,” Zayn admitted. “But I don't want to scare you.”

“Will the news be any less troubling in the light of day?”

Zayn lifted his shoulders. Harry still could not even begin to decipher the emotions sitting on Zayn's face. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

Harry regarded the stranger he loved so dearly as a husband and wished that life was simpler. “We'll discuss everything in the morning,” Harry murmured, blowing the candle out and leaving them both in darkness.

  


Zayn's birthday arrived quicker than Harry anticipated, but it made sense considering how busy Harry was. There was the new University library, Harry's continued meetings with diplomats and members of court, keeping up with Niall and Nick's gossip, and his less formal duties as Zayn's husband. And all the while, Harry stubbornly attempted to ignore some of the more insidious rumors coming in from far-flung regions of the Kingdom. Zayn often tried to engage Harry in some of those conversations, but Harry just – Harry did not want to know all of the details. It was one thing, hearing about discontent throughout the Kingdom from Caroline during her unplanned visits, but Harry liked the comfort of ignorance here at court. Harry knew that King Yaser was more than capable of quelling any uprising and could handle any threat arriving from foreign shores.

  


The actual day of Zayn's birthday was a rowdy affair. There was a parade through the city streets, culminating with a feast and an outdoor ball in the main square. Zayn looked dashing throughout it all, dressed in fine purple robes and wearing the same crown he had donned on his and Harry's wedding day. They danced together for several songs, the cheers of the city folk lifting the music up and making Harry's heart swell with joy.

They took a carriage back to the castle and decided to spend the night in Zayn's rooms. Zayn took his seat at the tea table with a low groan, stretching his arms out and knocking his crown askew where it sat on his head. Harry had collected Tessa from the barns on the way up to Zayn's rooms, and Harry watched Zayn with a small smile before setting Tessa on top of Zayn's bed and massaging his arms. Harry carried Tessa almost everywhere that he could, and the puppy was not above crying and turning her sad, little red eyes up at Harry when she tired of walking.

“That was a nice ball, wasn't it?” Zayn asked, his voice low and little more than a hum. “I had not anticipated seeing those particular musicians there today. Whose idea was that?”

“Your sister, Waliyha's,” Harry answered, sitting across from Zayn at the table and undoing the laces of his boots. An envelope from the University's Chancellor burned like a brand in his robes. “She said that there was another musician you prefer – I forget his name – but he's been traveling the countryside and couldn't make it in time.” When Harry finally managed to heft his shoes off, Harry moaned in relief and promptly placed his feet in Zayn's lap, his toes brushing against the underside of the table. Zayn smirked at Harry mischievously before cracking his knuckles and sweeping his thumbs over the arch of Harry's left foot. Harry curled into himself, giggling at the ticklish sensation and almost kicking out at Zayn's stomach, but Zayn held Harry's left ankle firm, smiling sweet and innocently as he continued to swirl his fingers across the bottom of Harry's feet.

“Was the other musician Sir Wentz?” Zayn asked excitedly.

Harry lifted his shoulders, but he couldn't stop a smile from traveling across his face. “Maybe? And maybe your mother already said that he would be coming to our anniversary celebrations anyway?”

Zayn bit at his bottom lip, honey colored eyes gleaming with excitement, and Harry snickered at Zayn before finally pulling the envelope out of the folds of his robes and sliding it across the table. Zayn frowned as he considered it, his fingers loosening their hold on Harry's foot.

“What is this?” Zayn asked, reaching across the table and turning the envelope over in his hands.

“It's from the University,” Harry explained. “I'm sure you've heard about their proposed new library? Well, I spoke to the Chancellor and they said they are going to name it after you. Prince Zayn Malik, the Peace Prince.” Harry laughed nervously, watching as Zayn broke the seal and began reading. Zayn's eyes silently tracked the words over and over again, almost like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. The moment stretched, Zayn's quietness making Harry's heart throb and his palms sweat with nerves. Harry rubbed his hands off onto his breeches, tracking the moisture onto the fabric. “Do you like the idea?” Harry asked, voice notching upwards with his anxiety. “I spoke to your mother, and she said – ”

Zayn leaned forward, pressing his lips to Harry's and effectively silencing Harry completely. Harry's heart continued to feel like it was thudding in his throat, but now for entirely different reasons, the ghost echoes of the night's music ringing in his ears as he distantly noted that Zayn had dropped the envelope back onto the table. Harry figured it didn't matter, instead melted into the kiss, eyes slipping closed as he parted his lips. Zayn nipped at Harry's bottom lip before pulling back from Harry almost reluctantly, pressing at Harry's mouth with the pad of his thumb. “It's lovely, Harry,” Zayn murmured, his voice small and hesitant like a child's. “I – it's the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me. Thank you.”

Harry shrugged, red blooming across his face and tinging the tips of his ears. Zayn actually liked his gift. Zayn liked Harry's gift and said it was the most thoughtful gift he had ever received. Harry hadn't fucked this one up. _Thank the gods_.

“You know, I've been thinking,” Zayn began again. His voice was still low and halting, as though he were worried about every word and intonation. “Our anniversary is in the summer, and we have already been through so much together. A whole lifetime of highs and lows in less than a year. But you are so dear to me, Harry. I want to spend every waking moment with you, and I hate that I must call down in order to see you. So. Perhaps we should consider getting our own wing of the castle? It's honestly silly that we're not sharing.”

Harry blinked. “You – you want to share quarters?”

“Of course I do,” Zayn said.

Harry exhaled, his mind racing as he grappled with what Zayn was finally proposing. The entirety of their relationship up until this point had been an experiment – two young men from kingdoms locked in what seemed like an endless war forced into a marriage, boys who met the very same day they swore to love and cherish each other. To protect each other. Two boys who initially did not even _understand_ each other. And compared to the other couples around them, Harry and Zayn had done just about everything of importance out of order. But Zayn was right – they had already overcome so much, and Harry did think he was somewhere close to happiness. Harry was at a point with Zayn and at court where he felt as though he belonged, no longer felt like an outsider first and the prince consort second. Of course Harry wanted to share his space with Zayn – he always had. But now Harry knew that Zayn had been thinking about it, and finally, _finally_ , Zayn had offered.

“Is there somewhere we can room together overlooking the gardens?” Harry asked.

Zayn nodded, the corner of his lips lifting upwards in a smile. “The castle is quite spacious. I'm sure we can rustle something together.”

“And what about Tessa?” Harry continued. “You know how I hate taking her to the barn every night. Can we have a room for her?”

Zayn's smile was almost radiant now, his entire being glowing with his elation and excitement. He leaned forward again, his fingers snaking through Harry's hair and scratching lightly at Harry's scalp. Harry had to bite against the urge to mewl. “Yes, Harry. Whatever will make you happy.”

  


Harry and Zayn arranged a meeting with Queen Trisha and Princess Doniya to propose their new shared living arrangement. Queen Trisha glowed when she was told the news, winking at Harry as she sipped her wine. Harry felt as though he could almost read the Queen's thoughts – first shared rooms, next, a child.

Apparently an elder Duke and his wife were contemplating leaving court and retiring to the countryside, and Queen Trisha seemed confident that she could give the old man the push needed to vacate his quarters. Queen Trisha also promised that she would have the rooms ready by Harry's upcoming nineteenth birthday. Harry and Zayn would then occupy that wing of the castle, and gift each of their current rooms to cherished Gentlemen. Harry and Zayn exchanged grins at that, although Harry could only imagine which friend Zayn would gift his room to.

Over the next few weeks, Harry and Zayn waited for the Duke to leave and for the rooms to be renovated to their liking. In the meantime, Harry took on the task of finding furnishings and artwork to decorate his and Zayn's new shared quarters, inviting famed furniture makers from throughout the kingdom to show him their designs, and traveling throughout the city to meet with new and promising artists. Zayn seemed happy to leave Harry with the arrangements, insisting loudly that he trusted Harry's judgment and was excited to see what sort of strange nick-knacks Harry would find for their space. The endorsement made Harry flush with pride, but Harry still enlisted Zayn's opinion whenever he could.

The entire venture made Harry feel like an adult in a way that nothing else had yet. Harry knew that he was a man in every way that mattered – he was married, had a husband and had been long discussing the idea of having a child. But in many ways Harry still felt like a young boy himself, lost and often in need of other's assistance. But this – this was one thing that he was able to do all on his own. It was invigorating.

  


When Harry was a little boy, it always snowed on his birthday. And it was never the soft, fluffy snow of early winter. No, the snow of Harry's birthday was cold, lashing ice water, more like hail that fell from the sky and slicked the castle grounds with yet another layer of white iciness. Court would spend the day indoors, drinking mulled wine and presenting Harry with the sort of practical gifts children never had any interest in – fur coats, new boots, perhaps a book or two that Harry would never read.

When Harry woke up on the morning of his nineteenth birthday, it was to the warmth of the sun heating his toes and creeping along the length of his leg. Zayn was curled around his back, his arm thrown across Harry's waist, and Zayn smelled like sex and the lavender soap he had taken to using during his baths.

Harry blinked about himself slowly, taking in his new bedroom. Their wing of the castle was large, almost disgustingly so. The renovation process had not taken very long, particularly under Queen Trisha's mindful eye, so Harry and Zayn officially moved in the night before Harry's birthday. Harry was still far from done decorating the entire wing, but they were here. They were here and it was _theirs_.

Harry let his eyes slip back closed, rubbing his hands over Zayn's arm. King Yaser had made Harry's birthday a holiday in Jinan, and that afternoon Harry and Zayn would make a public appearance down at the University, where they were finally going to break ground on the new library. But for these few blissful minutes, Harry had no plans. He just wanted to sleep in with his beautiful husband.

Harry drifted back off to sleep, smiling because there wasn't a single snowflake on the ground.

  


A few days later, Harry was lounging about on his new chaise, lazily petting Tessa's fur and stubbornly not thinking about anything of importance, when Louis came barreling through Harry and Zayn's quarters. Tessa, startled, began to growl lowly, fangs bared, but Harry hummed soothingly and the puppy settled back against Harry's chest, red eyes tracking Louis' movements warily.

Louis, for his part, appeared entirely nonplussed. He was casually dressed, wearing the same sort of light clothing that he frequently donned when he and Harry first met, but he came to an abrupt stop when he caught sight of Tessa sat upon Harry's chest. His eyes, wide and startling blue, regarded the direwolf with an expression Harry could not entirely read.

“You know, your direwolf is far more terrifying up close,” Louis began. “I suppose that's for the best, since you're not capable of intimidating anyone on your own.”

“What do you want?” Harry snapped irritably. Harry had looked forward to finally enjoying his new rooms, almost constant access to his husband, and the freedom to play with Tessa all day. Louis had not fit into _any_ of Harry's immediate plans. In fact, Harry could not even remember the last time he had seen Louis at court, and Harry had been perfectly content with that development.

Louis frowned, crossing his arms over his chest and walking over to the chaise, grabbing Harry's legs and pushing them to the ground. Harry squawked, sitting up and disturbing Tessa, who leaped off of Harry's chest with a whine before padding over to Louis and sniffing him curiously. Harry scowled.

“Good morning to you, too, Your Highness,” Louis retorted. “It's always such a pleasure to see you. Did you enjoy your birthday festivities?”

Harry glared at Louis, who returned the look with a superficial smile of his own. “Fine,” Harry answered shortly.

“You _could_ act as though you are grateful for my help,” Louis murmured airily, digging his fingers into Tessa's fur and grinning free and open. Harry wanted to kick Louis but somehow managed to refrain. Harry still thought about Louis slapping him far more frequently than he would ever admit. Harry knew it was ridiculous, but he could admit – at least internally – that he was a little afraid of Louis. Harry liked to think that he had nearly everyone at court neatly categorized – friend, potential ally, nuisance, antagonist – but Louis was harder to peg. If anything, he showed elements of each category. It was both refreshing and terrifying.

Harry sneered. “I'm not entirely sure you've done anything to enjoy my gratitude.”

Louis rolled his eyes. It was a weak retort and they both knew it. “Oh, because I have not done anything to help you here at court,” Louis murmured. Harry flushed hot, thinking of his desperate plea to keep the Edwards girl from coming to court. Louis had swore he would be able to manage it and he kept his word – only a few weeks ago Harry had overheard Lady Calder and Lady Swift discussing the warrior Princess' mysterious disappearance. As far as Harry could tell, the Edwards girl's absence was a source a gossip, but had yet to escalate to the point of actual concern for anyone at court.

“I was the one who told Zayn about your direwolf fixation,” Louis continued, holding a hand out hesitantly to Tessa, who licked the pad of his index finger with the swipe of a broad, pink tongue. “And I was also the one who told Zayn it was silliness to still be living in different quarters. So I think that I have done more than most to enjoy your gratitude.”

Harry's frown slipped off his face, instead replaced with one of bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

“When has Zayn ever shown any bit of initiative?” Louis pressed. “You of all people understand how complacent he can be. I got all of this – these rooms, the direwolf – for you.”

Harry stubbornly began to regard the lines of his own palms. _Of course_. Of course all of Zayn's words had been hollow promises – words fed to him by someone else. Zayn wasn't truly showing any enterprise. Zayn didn't actually _want_ Harry. He was just behaving diplomatically – acting in a way that had already been approved by committee, by Louis and Matty and whoever else.

How could Harry have assumed that this time would be any different? Harry had been so skeptical, so wary, but all Zayn had to do was murmur, “ _We're a team, Harry_ ,” for Harry to forget everything Zayn had done to hurt him and sink to his knees. _Stupid_. Harry was such a silly, stupid little boy who always took people's words at face value. And he had been played yet again.

Caroline would curse Harry's naivete if she were here. She would grip his cheeks and swear in his face. Harry suddenly and desperately wished Caroline would come back from wherever she had vanished to. Harry hadn't seen her for weeks, not since the Festival of Masks when she had grasped Harry with clammy palms and disappeared.

Harry stood suddenly, the cold of the tiles underneath his bare feet serving as a welcome shock to his system. Harry needed the jolt, needed to remember that just because his cage was gilded did not mean that he wasn't still being kept behind metal bars.

Harry turned to lock himself in his own rooms, already mentally preparing himself for a sulk, but Louis reached out, grabbing Harry's wrist and squeezing.

“Let me go,” Harry said, voice tight and almost hysterical.

“Stop behaving so childishly,” Louis scolded. “Sit down and listen to what else I have to tell you.”

“Louis – ”

“When have I ever steered you wrong?” Louis demanded. “When have I ever lied to you?”

“Always!” Harry exclaimed. “And don't you dare pretend otherwise. You feed me half-truths and the gods only know what you really do want of me. You just want to use me – ”

“And you've _never_ tried to use me to further your own ends?” Louis countered. “Do I have to remind you of that one late night visit? All the times that we had ended up in the same bed? Don't pretend to be morally superior. We'll never be friends, but you know I'm one of the best resources you have in this court. Look what my goodwill has already provided you! _Sit down_.”

Harry wavered, his blood rushing through his ears as he weighed the options. Harry still felt as though he didn't truly owe Louis anything. Harry had promised Louis that he would speak with Liam, but that was _it_. Harry was not obligated to sit around and listen to Louis' harassment for hours on end. Harry did not have to pretend as though they did not aggravate each other.

But by the same token, Harry was curious. Harry knew he could listen to what Louis had to say, and then he could call Niall and Nick up to his quarters to dissect the words and find the true meaning. Perhaps that was the route Harry should take.

So Harry turned and sat back on the chaise, smiling when Tessa slipped from under Louis' fingers and settled back in Harry's lap, yapping until Harry stroked her fur again. She really was a spoiled little pup, but it was not particularly surprising considering who her master was.

“Have you named her?” Louis asked, nodding at the direwolf.

“Tessa.”

“Is there any reason behind that name choice?”

Harry lifted his shoulders. “I'm sure you could look for one, if you choose to do so.”

Louis pursed his lips in acknowledgment before smiling. “It really is good that you're keeping the wolf close and raising her yourself,” Louis replied. “I'm not sure how much you've been paying attention, but there have been small uprisings in the countryside. Nothing the King and our armies can't handle, but it will certainly help if the people fear that you are a warrior, too.”

Harry blinked. Of course Harry knew that direwolves were ferocious animals, had once witnessed one tear a deer clean apart, but it was hard to look at Tessa and think she was anything more than a particularly fluffy ball of fur. “So Tessa is a gift disguised as a weapon.”

“The best gifts always are,” Louis quipped. Louis was quiet for a long moment, worrying his bottom lip in between his teeth. “You are your father's son. You need to own that – no more Prince Brat. You're a fighter. I knew that from our very first conversation.”

Harry shook his head. “I'm no warrior.”

“Just because you can't shoot an arrow doesn't mean you aren't a warrior,” Louis answered. “There's far more to you than that. Hell, there's not much separating you and I, Harry.”

Harry wasn't entirely sure how he should reply. He was sure that Louis meant his words as a compliment, but Harry did not like to think that he shared _any_ similarities with Louis.

“And I think you need to sit in on more of Zayn's meetings,” Louis continued. His tone was off – the pitch of his voice slightly higher than normal. “They can be exceptionally dull, but they are also where you can find out everything you need to know about this cursed kingdom.”

Harry frowned, feeling his eyebrows knit together. Harry knew enough about Louis to realize that he was holding a very important bit of information back. This could very well be an intentional decision on Louis' part, a way to make him feel important, but it didn't matter. Harry was sure that he would always be a piece in Louis' grand chest game, in his not-so-secret machinations to rule from behind the throne. Harry just hoped that at some point he would be a more important piece on Louis' life-sized chess board. “You heard something at one of these meetings. What was it?”

“There have been rumors coming out of Holmes,” Louis answered slowly. “King Yaser has instituted an interview process for every refugee seeking asylum in Jinan, and apparently that Earl who has fashioned himself King seems to have some sort of personal fixation with you. King Yaser is terrified that the imposter will do something rash and we will have to call upon the territories again. Push the transition to Zayn's rule back even further.”

Harry snorted, shaking his hair into his face. None of Louis' information was particularly surprising. Caroline had even said as much a few months ago when she returned from a personal trip to Holmes. Emperor George had assumed that he would come into a small fortune when he killed Harry's mother and stepfather, but the gold he had been expecting was _gone_. In fact, the money, which had come as a dowry for Harry's hand, had never left Jinan at all. A famed banker Harry had visited in the weeks before Zayn's birthday confirmed as much. So instead of sitting in Holmes, ready for Emperor George to seize, the gold was being used to partially fund a new library named in Zayn's honor.

Harry may have been naïve and silly when it came to matters of the heart, but he could still be sly and determined when he needed to be.

It did make sense that King Yaser was concerned that he might have to rule a little bit longer and draw up his armies again. Nevermind the fact that people were dying in Holmes, had been dying for months. King Yaser and his advisers looked upon Earl George and his potential aspirations upon the kingdom with the same mild annoyance they regarded the growing discontent outside of Jinan's high walls. For the first time, Harry could almost understand what Caroline had been trying to say – that it would've been better if King Yaser just did away with all of the threats to his throne in one summary sweep.

“We all know that King Yaser can crush Earl George's feeble and hungry army in one battle,” Harry mumbled. “I hardly see how this is of concern to me.”

“Of course it's of concern to you,” Louis snapped. “That's your kinsman.”

“Hardly,” Harry answered. “That was the entire reason I was supposed to marry his daughter – to _make_ us kin. But we have no real ties. Not of blood, nor of country, not anymore – and certainly not of good will. The only thing that binds us is the oath I have sworn to guarantee his removal from power.”

“Hm, have you daydreamed about how you would do it? How you would kill him?” Louis asked. His tone had turned into something soupy and kind of sweet, as though he was legitimately curious. Perhaps he was. Louis did seem like the type to be excited about murder.

“Of course,” Harry said. And Harry had – taking a sword to the man's neck, having him executed in the center of Jinan. But none of Harry's fantasies seemed gruesome enough for what the snake truly deserved. “I don't like to dwell on it. It's – it's not the most productive use of my time. To think such ugly, violent thoughts.”

Louis shook his head. “No. No, that's not true. That man is a monster and a traitor. You should certainly indulge in such thoughts. I have and I don't even know him.”

“You've thought about killing Earl George?” Harry snickered. “You don't even know what he looks like.”

“No, I haven't thought about killing that imposter,” Louis protested. “I've thought about watching _you_ do it.”

It wasn't often that Harry found himself rendered speechless, but this was one of those moments. In Louis terms, Harry knew that this was another compliment. It meant that Louis thought that Harry could be true to his word, that Harry was capable of doing what was necessary. But Harry had absolutely _nothing_ to say in response.

“Will you ever tell me what it is you want from me?” Harry asked after a long pause.

Louis tilted his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“You are trying to help me,” Harry answered slowly. “It's in a strange way where you're also helping yourself – but I can see that it comes from a vaguely positive place. Why?”

Louis pursed his lips and lifted his shoulders. “I told you how I felt about you back in Abbas.”

Harry shook his head as he recalled that conversation. He and Louis in the woods together, a heavy dragon egg in Harry's lap. Louis' halting words – “ _I just wanted you to know that I do care for you. And that if things with the Prince do not work out to either of your liking . . . well. I'm just here_.” Harry had been so confused at the time, torn between wondering whether Louis was pulling a grand trick or if his words were a legitimate reflection of his feelings. Now Harry knows that Zayn would have never tested Harry's loyalty by using his half-brother, but that did not mean Harry felt any surer in thinking that Louis actually wanted him.

“Things have changed so much since then, Louis,” Harry began. “And you must know that deserting Zayn is not an option. So what do you want from me?”

“Don't ask questions you aren't prepared to know the answer to,” Louis answered, smiling conspiratorially. Louis took a moment before he stood, brushing invisible dust off of his clothes. “Well, I hope you do take my recommendations to heart, particularly when it comes to sitting in on Zayn's meetings. Most of the discussions do concern you and your people. You deserve to have your voice heard.”

Harry nodded noncommittally. He felt dizzy and all out of sorts. “I shall do my best.”

Louis reached out and patted Harry's knee. Harry turned his eyes back toward Tessa, cooing and petting her belly. It was only after Louis left that Harry let the facade fall, his bottom lip shaking and his hands trembling as he combed through Tessa's fur.  
  


Initially, Matty and Taylor had planned for a summertime wedding, a coastal celebration that would be the talk of the entire kingdom. However, several factors, including Harry and Zayn's own anniversary activities and what appeared to be an early and long summer, led to the decision to move the ceremony up a few months.

Were Harry still communicating with Taylor, he would have surely received regular updates about the planning process – the location, her dress, the food, the musicians that were coming in specifically from the far northern territories. Taylor and Matty were obscenely wealthy, and, fortunately enough, their families were both exceptionally pleased about the love match. This combination foretold of a ceremony that could _not_ be missed.

Taylor personally hand-delivered the invitations one day at court, making a big to-do about distributing envelopes with beautiful calligraphy and what seemed like endless amounts of ribbons. Harry watched Taylor titter about the dining hall, one of her servants traipsing after her with a large wicker basket overflowing with invitations. Fortunately enough, Harry and Zayn were dining together, so Harry was not alone when Taylor made her way up to the main table, her light colored eyes flitting nervously over Harry before she sank into a curtsy.

“Your Highness,” Taylor murmured, emerging from her bow and turning to her servant girl, who procured an envelope almost drowning in green and purple ribbons. The clash of colors was jarringly ugly, but Harry could also appreciate the token for what it was – the Malik family's purple and Harry's color from Holmes.

“Lady Swift,” Zayn said, his eyes brightening as he smiled fondly at Taylor. Harry wondered when the last time was that they had spoken. Zayn and Matty met every day, but Harry suddenly realized that he had probably put more of an effort into socializing with Taylor than Zayn had in recent months. “How has our early summer been treating you?”

“Quite well, Your Highness,” Taylor replied. “Same as I hope it has been treating you and Prince Harry?”

Harry hummed but luckily Zayn answered for him. “The sunshine has been delightful. Thank you, Lady Swift.”

Taylor smiled tightly before handing over the invitation, saying, “The Duke and myself do hope that you and Prince Harry will come to our wedding in a few weeks time. We know that Prince Harry has his own estate there, but you are of course more than welcome to stay with us in the Healy family home.”

Zayn ran his fingers over the raised calligraphy, his eyes dropping to consider it briefly before grinning at Taylor once more. “Yes, of course. Thank you for your generosity, Taylor. We would never miss such an important occasion.”

Taylor curtsied again, expelling a quick puff of a breath before turning and tiptoeing back from the high table, her servant girl trailing in her wake. Zayn watched her go with a vacant expression before handing Harry the invitation. Harry skimmed his pointer finger over the thick parchment, taking in Taylor's swirling script. “ _His Royal Majesty Prince Zayn and His Highness Prince Harry_.”

“I'd rather mine said 'His Royal Majesty,' too,” Harry noted. “'His Highness' sounds stupid.”

Zayn glanced over at Harry, his face twisted up in consideration. “They both sound stupid, to be completely honest. But. You don't want to stay at the Healy family home,” Zayn said. The phrasing almost made it sound like a question, but the bland intonation let Harry know that it wasn't.

“No. And you don't want to, either. You would much rather stay on my property.”

Zayn raised an eyebrow before grabbing his wineglass and silently toasting Harry. “Glad to see we're on the same page, Your Highness.”

Harry hit Zayn lightly with Taylor's invitation, scoffing when Zayn dribbled wine down his chin. “Excuse me, it's ' _Your Majesty_.'”

  


The wedding was not for another few weeks, but the lead-up was a very big to-do. Harry was unfamiliar with the customs in Jinan considering that the only wedding he had been to was his own, but his countrymen very quickly explained that typical wedding ceremonies were spaced out over several weeks. There was some sort of betrothal commitment ceremony that happened in the gardens at court, and not long after that, Zayn and Harry made the trip to Taylor's family home for an intimate dinner celebrating the couple. By the time Zayn and Harry returned to court, they had to place orders for their attire, as well as collect all of the wedding gifts. Zayn, being the generous and attentive friend he was, had already commissioned some artwork to be hung up in Matty and Taylor's new quarters at court. Harry was glad that Zayn had it all planned, particularly since Harry had not given any degree of thought to getting either Matty or Taylor a gift.

Harry had been out and about in Jinan with Kevin and Tessa when he returned to his wing of the castle one afternoon. Zayn was supposed to be helping Matty with wedding preparations all day, so Harry was very surprised to hear voices coming from Zayn's study.

Harry set Tessa down on the floor before making his way over to Zayn's room, closing his eyes and placing his ear against the closed door to see if he could identify the voices. He held his breath, not particularly surprised when he could make out King Yaser's strong, deep tones.

“ – his own indiscretions. This had _nothing_ to do with you, son. I've told you a million times and my patience is running thin.”

“So it had nothing to do with the rumors swirling around me here at court?” The second voice was very clearly Zayn's. He sounded upset – far angrier than Harry had ever recalled hearing Zayn before. It was unsettling. Harry knew that Zayn experienced emotions, of course he rationally understood that, but Zayn always managed to be so cool and suave. He had never really raised his voice in order to make a point, and yet here he was – yelling at _his father_ , the King, no less. “You weren't looking for a way to rehabilitate my reputation?”

“Son, I was looking for a way to end the war,” King Yaser hissed. “Have you truly been so narrow-minded and self-centered as to assume all of this is about _you_ and those disgusting rumors?”

“You asked for _him_ ,” Zayn continued. “You asked for Harry, a _boy_ , not for a cousin, not for a Lady at his court – ”

“I asked for him because he was the Prince!” King Yaser retorted. “I asked for him because he was the only one whose hand in marriage could achieve the intended effect. Did I assume that he would be more pleasing to you than a woman? Yes, I did. But his mother was also eager to send him abroad. It had baffled me at the time, but the terms were satisfactory however we dissected it, and we all know that the woman was a prescient ruler. You should be grateful. The young Prince has not been anything but accommodating, even when you have been thoughtless and aloof. Has he not tired _endlessly_ for your good favor?”

“You know that I care for him, Father,” Zayn sputtered. Harry tried to ignore the hurt that spiked through his blood hearing Zayn say “care” and not “love.” Zayn had hardly even uttered the word lately – _love_ – not that Harry was keeping track. “But that is not the point!”

“Then what is the point?” King Yaser sighed. “I must admit that it has not been apparent to me.”

“Harry has gotten wind of the old rumors,” Zayn finally admitted softly. “I am not sure how, but Lady Swift told me that he heard something. I just wanted to know – ”

“Why would I tell him?” King Yaser demanded.

Harry's head was spinning, his hands trembling where he had clamped them over his mouth. Taylor and Zayn had a conversation? When? And about those horrific rumors? _Why_? And why did she refrain from telling Zayn the entire truth – that she had been the one to tell Harry about those strange whisperings of inappropriate closeness between two brothers?

Even as Harry's thoughts swirled belligerently, King Yaser continued to speak. “Why would I tell the boy I brought to my palace and swore to love and protect as though he were my own son? What good would that be to me, to admit to questioning the nature of the relationship between you and Louis?”

“So you did question it?”

King Yaser scoffed. “Everyone did. But that does not matter. I believed you. I took your word. Is that not enough?”

“But your initial doubts – they had nothing to do with the decision to bring Harry over?”

There was a long and pregnant pause. “No.”

Harry blinked, turning around and walking away from Zayn's study. His palms were sweaty and he distantly registered swiping them across his breeches. Harry didn't believe the King. And he was sure that Zayn hadn't believed his father, either.

Harry never should have eavesdropped on that conversation.

Harry sat down on a chaise underneath the window, clucking his tongue as Tessa padded across the floor to him, her nails clicking against the tiling. Harry pulled Tessa into his arms and buried his face in her fur, already slowly picking apart the memory of Zayn and King Yaser's conversation and storing the tiny pieces in the mental treasure chest he shoved all of his repressed feelings into.

  


Harry had fully deconstructed his emotions by the time Zayn and King Yaser finally emerged from Zayn's room about an hour later. Both men's faces were long and pallid with exhaustion, but they would not have known that Harry had overheard a snippet of their conversation by the sweet, toothy grin Harry threw their way. King Yaser returned the smile when he saw Harry, walking over to Harry's chaise and clapping Harry on the shoulder.

“How are you, son?” King Yaser asked, his smile tight and strained.

“Quite well, Your Highness,” Harry replied. “Eager for our trip to the coast for Duke Healy and Lady Swift's wedding.”

King Yaser nodded, squeezing Harry with a broad hand before pulling away. “Well, I will not take your husband away from packing any longer,” King Yaser said. “Please make sure Zayn does not work too hard during all of the festivities.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Harry answered. King Yaser nodded to Harry and Zayn before leaving their rooms, the door closing behind him with a resounding thud.

There was a brief moment where Zayn and Harry turned toward each other. Zayn looked tired, bags underneath his eyes as he stood with his shoulders hunched. But beyond that, Harry had no sense of what Zayn was thinking. Harry wondered if Zayn had better luck trying to read Harry's countenance, or if they were equally lost.

Zayn walked over to Harry, placing a lingering kiss on Harry's forehead. He pulled away, petting Tessa's head where she was still curled against Harry's chest, and walked back to his study, closing the door softly behind him.

  


Harry, as was probably expected, was not particularly excited about Matty and Taylor's nuptials, but he dutifully climbed into the carriage that would take them to the coast nonetheless. It was bound to be a long ride, even without constantly stopping at noblemen's houses like Harry had to do in the weeks leading up to his wedding to Zayn. And for reasons Harry did not entirely understand, Tessa was not allowed to come on this journey, but Harry tried to remain positive. It would certainly be nice to return to the sea, to feel its saltwater spray and tan his skin. And Harry would be riding along with Zayn. They would have plenty of time to talk and revel in each other's company.

The trip would be _fine_.

  


Zayn and Harry were only a day away from Harry's house along the coast, happily playing cards in their carriage when the buggy came to a sudden and grinding halt. Harry nearly fell against the door, but Zayn grabbed his wrist, hauling Harry back onto his seat. Harry began collecting the cards that had slid off his lap when Zayn rolled his eyes and rapped on the side of the carriage.

“Kevin!” Zayn called. “Why have we stopped? We need to take advantage of the daylight!”

There was a creaking noise and then the carriage door was flung open. Kevin stood on the other side of it, appearing both dusty and apologetic. “There's some sort of obstruction in the road, Your Highness,” Kevin murmured. “Duke Healy and his Lady's servants have gone ahead to investigate.”

“Investigate?” Harry echoed. “What's blocking the road? Animals?”

Kevin gulped, eyes darting to consider Zayn before turning back to Harry. “No, Your Highness. It's a crowd. I – I fear that we may have unwittingly stumbled upon an execution.”

Harry held back a gasp. “A – an execution?”

Zayn inhaled sharply and Harry watched Zayn and Kevin hold a quick conversation with their eyes – the silent give and take that Harry still yearned to experience with his husband. Kevin and Zayn reached an understanding fairly quickly, Kevin nodding and closing the carriage door behind him again with the snick that signaled he had locked Harry and Zayn inside. Harry stared at the shut door, not even realizing he was shaking until Zayn placed his hand on top of Harry's knee, squeezing Harry reassuringly.

“Kevin will find another road,” Zayn murmured soothingly. Harry buried his face in Zayn's neck, mind racing, as he felt the carriage heave and begin moving again.

  


When Harry was something like fifteen-years-old, he witnessed his first public execution. Such spectacles were not particularly common in Holmes – at least not to Harry's sheltered and extremely limited knowledge. They were still in the midst of a war and Queen Anne considered public executions to be extremely distasteful. Mostly, criminals were exiled or drafted into the King's army. Only the worst delinquents were killed, and of those, even a smaller percentage, only the worst traitors, were killed in front of the people.

Harry was already bedding Caroline by this point, so they attended the mandatory public execution together. Perhaps this decision was a bit of foreshadowing for their relationship – the fact that one day there would be people at court clamoring for Caroline's beheading – but Harry did not like to think about that much.

The criminal in question was a lieutenant who had been caught selling military secrets to the mercenaries. The justification behind his decision was murky and the source of endless speculation and hearsay. Some at court thought he did it purely for gold, but there were others who believed that the lieutenant had fallen in love with a witch hired by King Yaser. Harry rather liked the second story, thought it was romantic albeit detrimental to his father's cause, but Caroline was quick to remind Harry that there was nothing particularly glamorous about being found out for treason and sentenced to death.

The execution was held inside of the castle grounds one brisk winter morning. People came from miles around, from villages Harry had not even heard of, cramming in front of the makeshift platform that had been erected for the occasion only days before. Men, women, and children with faces scrubbed clean as though they were headed out to temple dotted the grounds, craning their necks and jostling in order to see the spectacle. Harry and Caroline stood beside the King and Queen in their best furs, rubbing at their red, runny noses with the back of gloved hands as they waited.

Harry remembered thinking that the man – the traitor – did not look very remarkable. He was dirty and had a split lip, his arms tied behind his back with rope that dug into his wrists. But beyond these details, the man was pale, with light colored eyes and nondescript brown hair. The sort of person Harry's eyes would have otherwise glided over in a crowd. But the man only became more intriguing the longer Harry watched. The traitor did not tremble as guards brought him to stand on the platform, and he hardly winced when they threw him down onto his knees. The executioner, a large meaty man with claw-like hands, guffawed and gripped an ax in his hand, banging the handle against the platform to the great excitement of the crowd. The accused, however, just stared straight ahead, his mouth forming around words Harry could not hope to catch nor decipher, before the guards jammed a bag over the man's head. Harry wondered if the traitor was still mumbling, even now that he was only moments away from his death.

“Oh gods,” Caroline whispered. “He was speaking Nia.”

Harry hardly even processed Caroline's words before a hush descended upon the crowd and the executioner swung the gleaming ax upwards, the sound of metal swooshing through the air. The executioner bore his arms downwards, and the ax bit through the meat of the man's neck in one clean swipe, tearing the bag's fabric with an obscene sounding rip. A cheer burst from the crowd as the man's head toppled against the platform with a slick thud, hot blood hitting the icy platform and steaming in the cold winter wind. It took another few moments for the man's body to catch up with the violence performed against it, the arms giving a cruel spasm against the restraints before he fell to his side.

The King and Queen turned to each other with something approximating a smile before clapping Harry on the shoulder and encouraging him to wave to the people. Harry exchanged a quick glance with his mother, whose lips were tightly pursed in a grimace, before doing what he was told, blowing kisses until he was dismissed.

Harry, to his credit, was able to make it all the way back to his rooms before he vomited, the image of the traitor's steaming blood seared into his memory.

  


Kevin was indeed able to find an alternate road, and Zayn and Harry sat together in silence, their earlier card game all but abandoned. They were still a few hours away from Harry's home and Harry was utterly spent. Zayn's hand was a welcome weight on Harry's knee and Zayn was squeezing Harry's thigh intermittently, but unfortunately Zayn's presence wasn't as distracting as it should have been.

Harry hadn't thought of that public execution in years, had shoved it into that quiet place he kept his most terrifying memories, but now it was the only thing dashing across Harry's brain. Harry had thought such brutalities only occurred in Holmes, that cold, icy land where people blamed their evils on the endless winter. What excuse did Zayn's Kingdom have? How could Zayn be sure that this cruelty remained on the fringes and did not come storming through Jinan? What guarantees did Zayn have that he and Harry would remain safe?

“Are we going to be in danger?” Harry murmured. “Was it foolish to come down to the coast?”

Zayn hummed, reaching over to tangle his fingers in Harry's hair. “Of course not. You know I would never bring you here if I thought there was any kind of threat.”

“Then what is that execution all about?” Harry demanded. “Did it have something to do with those uprisings you, Matty, and the King are dealing with?”

Zayn shook his head sadly. “I cannot be sure, Harry. We'll have to wait and hear the report from the local Mayor. But you have to remember – this is essentially Matty's territory. The people wouldn't harm him, nor us. Particularly not you. The people _love_ you, Harry.”

Harry scoffed. The Kingdom was grateful that Queen Anne shipped Harry overseas as a peace spouse. Harry did not think that was the same as being loved by the people. “You can't be sure of that, Zayn.”

Zayn tipped his finger underneath Harry's chin, forcing their gazes to meet. “I _am_ sure,” Zayn said, and even as Zayn uttered the words, Harry felt something like uncertainty roil through his insides. “Everything will be all right, love.”

Harry nodded, accepting the hug that Zayn bestowed him with, but Harry's mind was still racing with a whole list of horrific possibilities just waiting for he and Zayn.

  


Zayn and Harry were supposed to visit Matty's mother for some sort of formal dinner as soon as they arrived along the coast. Harry did not particularly feel in the mood to socialize, exhausted and still rattled by the execution they had stumbled upon, so he stayed home while Zayn soldiered on with his duties.

Harry found that he did not miss the noise and festivities. Harry was alone in his home in a way he had never been before, just he and several of his most trusted servants. Harry took a walk about the grounds, visited the barns, and took his dinner in the kitchen, laughing and joking with the servants stationed there. It was a very well-needed distraction.

Harry was hot and pleasantly full when he finally made his way to bed long after sunset. Harry walked over to his windows, throwing them open and letting the curtains flutter with the soft, warm sea breeze. Harry stood there for a moment, regarding the sprawling grounds and the water off in the distance and letting the night air tickle his skin and run through his hair. It was the closest Harry had felt to serenity in a long while.

Harry was so lost in the moment that he hadn't even realized Caroline had come to stand behind him until she was digging her fingers into his arm and turning him around.

Harry was glad to see that Caroline looked far healthier than the last time she had made an appearance during the Festival of Masks. Gone was her pallid skin and the sickly hands that had caused Harry so much worry. Now, Caroline was bronzed just like how Harry remembered her from his youth, and she was dressed in a tight-fitting green bodice that more closely resembled traditional Holmes attire than anything that was currently in fashion in Jinan. But perhaps most importantly, Caroline was scowling at Harry. This, coupled with new-found health, did not spell anything particularly positive in Harry's immediate future.

“Caroline,” Harry started, attempting a smile. “It's such a – ”

“Spare me the pleasantries,” Caroline hissed, tightening her hold on Harry's bicep and digging her nails through Harry's clothing. Harry winced at the sudden jolt of pain but tried to maintain eye contact. “I just have to ask you, Harry. What concrete steps have you taken to keep the Prince at a distance?”

Harry opened his mouth and closed it, wincing again when Caroline twisted her grip. “I – erm – ”

“Yes?” Caroline asked sweetly. “You've done what?”

Harry blinked and took a long gulp. “It seems that you already know the answer to that question.”

“Of course I do,” Caroline growled, pushing Harry to the ground. Harry fell onto his bottom and promptly lifted the sleeve of his shirt, blanching at the sight of three long scratches along his arm. “I advise you to keep the Prince at an arm's length and you promptly give him a library and move into an extravagant wing of the castle together. Tell me, Harry. Have you always been stupid, or is this a new side of your character that I'm just now noticing?”

“I'm not stupid,” Harry protested, bristling at the accusation. “I've been doing what I need to do. You know that.”

“You haven't been doing anything. You've been partying and playing with your dog and ignoring all the signs of turmoil around you.”

Harry pouted. “Tessa isn't a dog. She's a direwolf.”

“So that offends you and nothing else does?” Caroline huffed. “I cannot believe you, Harry.”

“You weren't _here_ ,” Harry said. “You told me you would be back soon but you weren't here and I – I was trying to see if I could do this on my own. I went to all of my meetings. I tried to pay attention to everything. I tried to see if I could pretend to be the Prince's happy little husband. And you know what, I can, Caroline! So I would really appreciate it if you didn't speak to me as though I'm ignorant and unaware.”

Something almost pitying danced across Caroline's face but as quick as it appeared, it was gone, replaced with something far harder. “I certainly understand doing what you need to do. But, Harry, I told you that you need to think more critically. The Prince and all of his kinsmen are still manipulating you – I'm sure you can see that.”

Harry lifted his shoulder. “I – I don't know, Caroline. They've all been fine recently.” It wasn't entirely true, but Caroline did not need to know that.

Caroline narrowed her eyes, pursing her lips as she considered Harry. “Because they've been telling you things you already knew,” she deduced. “They've been sprinkling truths in with their lies now.”

Harry shook his head. “Caroline – ”

Caroline returned to her earlier scowl. “You send me on this wild goose chase trying to determine what befell that Edwards girl. I spend _weeks_ trying to help you. Every time – tasks that require energy and so much magical exertion. And all the while, you are doing – what exactly? What goals are you even trying to accomplish anymore, Harry?” Caroline ran her fingers through her hair, emitting something low and heavy with frustration. “What would _your mother_ have to say about your behavior and lack of initiative?”

It was a low blow and Harry felt it twist his insides where he was still sitting on the floor. Caroline had absolutely _no right_ to bring up Harry's mother. Harry opened his mouth to say as much, but he never got the chance to.

Because Rebecca was sauntering out of the corner of Harry's room, her eyes dark and playful as she took in the scene before her. She was beautiful, just as awe-inspiring as Harry remembered from their brief encounter. Magic almost seemed to radiate from all around her, a low thrumming power that sent tingles through Harry's extremities. Harry wanted to bask in it, bending toward Rebecca like a flower to the sun.

“Seems a little strange to mention Queen Anne considering you were bedding her young son when you were still one of her Ladies, doesn't it, Caroline?” Rebecca asked.

Harry felt his eyebrows rise comically wide. Harry turned to Caroline, expecting some sort of witty retort, but for the first time that Harry could recall, Caroline was rendered completely speechless.

 


	15. Part Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry nodded, a small jerk of his head that became more confident when the hint of a smile tugged at Zayn's lips. “Yes. We stand together, Zayn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my betas and thanks, as well, to all of the tremendous artists who have created something for this story, including Noah who provided the art that accompanies this chapter. You are all tremendously inspiring people who have encouraged me to keep writing even though this fic honestly feels like The Odyssey at points.
> 
> There's a scene toward the end of this chapter that is a tense and charged interaction between two of the characters. I just want to remind everyone of the tags I've used for this story and also the text/show that is the inspiration. If there are other tags you would like me to add to the fic, please indicate them in a comment or [send me an ask on Tumblr](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/ask)!

There was a long, protracted moment where everything felt still and fragile. Harry, Rebecca, and Caroline, the three of them measuring each other and waiting for one to break the delicate hush that had descended upon them.

As Harry waited, he knew that _something_ had changed. He couldn't pinpoint the exact nature of it, but he could feel the certainty in his marrow, in the swelling and compression of his lungs.

They regarded each other and Harry watched as life continued around them. The faint scent of flowers carried through the room. Birds tittered outside of Harry's open windows. Servants puttered about the house, calling to each other. Laughing. Singing. Somewhere, a brief horse ride away, Zayn was finishing a dinner without Harry at his side.

Harry blinked, sucking in a rattling breath, and when he opened his eyes again, Caroline had thrown her shoulders back, her hair fluttering with the draft from Harry's open window. Harry had never considered it before, but Caroline rather strongly resembled the renderings of female warriors that Harry had seen in old pieces of art decorating his mother's bedroom. Slight but still strong, these warriors were said to be the descendants of mermaids. Perhaps Caroline came from mermaid stock, too. Harry was never entirely sure how women became witches, whether it was in their blood, or the result of an oath. Harry didn't know why he had never asked.

“Did you really think you could move about the kingdom undetected, Caroline?” Rebecca inquired finally, her voice low and slinky. She tsked mockingly and took a step forward, the fabric of her dress swirling about her ankles. “A fool's error.”

“I was not aware that I could no longer travel freely,” Caroline replied. “Should I have registered with King Yaser, same as the other refugees from Holmes?”

Rebecca threw back her head and laughed but it was cold and without mirth. “Hmm, it would have been wise. Perhaps he would have been able to suss out your traitorous motivations.”

“Traitorous?”

Rebecca cleared her throat while Caroline's face blanched. “' _Harry, what concrete steps have you taken to keep the Prince at a distance_?'” Rebecca feigned a frown. “Did I not stumble upon a discussion with traitorous intent?”

“Matters of the heart and treason are two entirely different things – ”

“You are filling the boy's head with fluff,” Rebecca hissed. “Silly thoughts about going against the Prince who has done so much to keep him healthy and safe – ”

Caroline's undignified snort interrupted what appeared to be an impending diatribe. “The Prince has been following his own best interests. Prince Zayn and his men know that the way to keep Harry complacent is to ply him with drinks and gifts.”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest, trying his best not to bristle under the heat of Caroline's comment. “I'm standing right here, Caroline.”

“I'm sure you are well versed in keeping Prince Harry complacent,” Rebecca retorted, baring her teeth at Caroline and ignoring Harry completely. “You _know_ him better than anyone else. That _is_ the reason they banished you from Holmes, if I'm not mistaken?”

Caroline's eyes flashed, her lips curling around a sneer. She opened her mouth, poised to fire off her own remark, but then she seemed to think better of it. She glanced at Harry, a heavy, searching look that Harry could not entirely decipher. Rebecca took another step forward, malicious energy surging around her and making the hair on the back of Harry's neck stand up, but then Caroline was _gone_ , vanished into thin air once more.

Harry bit down against the fear and disappointment threatening to consume him whole and made himself turn toward Rebecca instead. Rebecca's eyes were glued to the spot where Caroline stood, her teeth worrying the inside pocket of her cheek. “I should have known that she would do that,” Rebecca finally sighed, bringing her hands to her temples and rubbing the skin there. “I should've – I should've just waited.”

“Why are you here?” Harry demanded, his hands shaking. He felt entirely out of his depth now that he was alone with Rebecca. Harry hardly knew anything about the woman. She had found Harry his direwolf, and for that Harry was very grateful, but Nick and Niall had seemed convinced that she was a threat. That she was dangerous. And Caroline certainly did not trust Rebecca, either. Harry didn't know how he was expected to handle himself or how he could convince Rebecca that he really was a silly boy without any plans of his own. Why did Caroline leave him all alone to deal with this mess?

“Why have you been watching me? Are you following me?”

Rebecca actually had the gall to appear affronted, as though she had not in fact appeared in the middle of Harry's bedroom completely uninvited. “Of course not. I journeyed out to the coast for Duke Healy and Lady Swift's wedding. I recognized Caroline's signature and followed it back to the house. To _your_ house. Why was she here? Did you invite her in?”

“Gods, no,” Harry retorted. “Caroline comes and goes as she pleases. I never know where she is at any time. And what do you mean – her signature?”

“Every witch has a distinct magical signature,” Rebecca explained curtly. “Hers stinks like a dog.”

Harry frowned. “Why is it that witches are so obsessed with comparing others to animals?”

Rebecca seemed content to ignore Harry's question entirely. “So you have been in regular communication with Caroline?”

Harry shrugged and surreptitiously attempted to wipe his suddenly sweaty palms against his breeches. “She's a familiar face from Holmes. I – I trust her. _Trusted_ her. She came to me not long before the wedding – ”

“Did you fuck her?” Rebecca interrupted. “Is that why she is here, why she's been following you around? Have you been bedding her?”

“No,” Harry answered. Rebecca frowned, tilting her head to the side as though she was doubting Harry's words. “ _No_. I have not been sleeping with her. Gods – I have been entirely faithful to my husband. Is that really so hard to believe?”

“Yes,” Rebecca replied curtly. “Your reputation in Holmes – ”

“Fuck you,” Harry hissed. “Who I chose to bed when I was in Holmes is none of your concern. I swore to love, honor, and cherish my husband when I came to Jinan and I stand by my oath.”

“Even when Caroline has tried to convince you to do otherwise?”

Harry sneered and nodded. That was certainly one thing Harry could say about himself at this point. He may scheme and do ridiculously foolish things, but at the end of the day, he hadn't betrayed Zayn's trust and become an adulterer. Harry hadn't even stopped sleeping with Zayn like Caroline wanted him to. “Yes. Even when Caroline has tried to convince me otherwise.”

Rebecca pursed her lips, but something akin to satisfaction flashed across her face. She made her way over to Harry's bed, sitting on it delicately and patting the space beside her. Harry bit his lip but did as instructed, settling on the mattress as far away from Rebecca as he could manage.

“I could interrogate you. Determine what exactly the nature of your relationship is with Caroline and what she's been telling you. Find out what tasks you have been sending her on – the 'wild goose chase' she alluded to. But frankly, I don't care,” Rebecca stated. “You can have your secrets. You can pursue your own silly missions while you are at court. Gods know you need to find ways to keep yourself amused. All that I am concerned about is Prince Zayn. I have dedicated my life to his service, and if he trusts you, I would rather like to trust you as well.” Rebecca spread her hands out on the bed and leaned into Harry, the fan of her hair so close that Harry could smell the faint vanilla of her perfume. “So _convince me_ , Harry. Why should I trust you? Why should Prince Zayn plan a life that includes yours?”

“Have I not done enough to earn your trust already?” Harry snapped. “I thought that I proved myself already and that's why I even know of your existence. So why should I feel compelled to provide you with evidence of my loyalty _again_? Clearly I am on the Prince's side.”

“You are on your own side.”

“My side and Prince Zayn's are one and the same,” Harry retorted. “At the end of the day, we have the same goals and interests.”

“Do you really?”

Harry huffed, winding his fingers through his hair and tugging slightly at the roots. He just wanted to _sleep_. He did not have the patience to deal with what _was_ amounting to an investigation. He also did not have the patience for witches and their own infighting. If Rebecca was so concerned with Caroline, she should just go after the woman directly and leave Harry out of it. Harry just wanted to rest and mentally prepare for a fucking wedding he had no interest in.

“You don't believe me?” Harry hissed. “ _Fine_. Do you want to know what I had Caroline looking into? I wanted her to find out where that Edwards girl had vanished to because I was worried that Prince Zayn was interested in rekindling a romance with her while he was still with _me_. And you know what else I've been doing at court? Trying to have a son with Prince Zayn. Silly, vapid, _stupid_ things. Because I am actually strangely committed to this relationship I am trying to foster with Prince Zayn. If you are so concerned with loyalty, perhaps you should be having a conversation with him about all of the secrets he's been keeping. _Gods_.”

Harry flopped back against the bed, rubbing his eyes and trying his best not to cry. His whole body ached and he felt rather childish after this particular outburst, but by the same token, he could recognize that he felt strangely relieved. Pleased, even. Pleased to have finally discussed these stressful elements of his life with someone else, and mollified by the thought that someone within Zayn's circle finally knew what Harry was doing – and had already done – to win Zayn's long-term trust and approval.

Harry did not like to think about it often, but sometimes when Harry was alone, or when he would wait in bed after a long, trying day for Zayn to come to him, Harry would be plagued with worries that Zayn and Harry didn't _really_ love each other. It was a terrifying thought, one that dripped with slinky insinuations and made Harry doubt everything he had come to know of his life in Jinan. Sometimes Harry even doubted his own declarations to Zayn, all of the assurances that Harry was completely enamored with his husband and deeply satisfied in their relationship. Harry did care about Zayn, there was no doubt there, and he was certainly obsessed with courting Zayn's affection and favor. But Harry recognized that his obsession was partially due to the realization that Zayn cradled Harry's life and well-being within his thin fingers. Occasionally Harry couldn't help but wonder whether he just told himself he loved Zayn because it made things easier, and not because it was the hard and bare truth.

But when Harry made grand proclamations like this one, listing all that he had already done for Zayn, Harry could delude himself into thinking that the answer was obvious. Harry loved Zayn, and it was true because he did crazy things for Zayn. That's what love was all about.

Rebecca seemed to think so at least, because she smiled and ran her fingers through Harry's hair, brushing away long strands that had stuck to his sweaty forehead while Harry tried not to flinch.

“Do you need my help?” Rebecca murmured, and her voice was as low and soft as a mother's coo. “Do you want me to talk to Zayn?”

Harry nodded, all of the fight leeching from his body underneath the witch's warm hands. Distantly, Harry realized that it was probably some sort of magic. A charm to calm Harry's racing heart and overwhelming thoughts. But if Rebecca believed Harry's tale, if she was still willing to help him and thought that Harry was too dumb to be Caroline's accomplice, then Harry could count this conversation as a win.

As Harry's eyes slid closed, Harry wondered if life could be like this all the time. _Simple_. Uncomplicated. Easy. Harry knew it was probably the spell, but it didn't stop him from dreaming. From hoping.

“Yes, Rebecca,” Harry murmured. “I do want your help.”

  


It was past midnight and Rebecca was long gone by the time Zayn finally returned from the Healy residence. Harry had been waiting in a half-awake state, wanting nothing more than to curl around his husband and sink into Zayn's comforting embrace.

Zayn smelled faintly like smoke and animal feed when he finally crawled into bed beside Harry, his hazel eyes glinting in the moonlight. Harry crinkled his nose, curious as to why Zayn smelled like the inside of a barn, but Harry held his tongue and dutifully turned over so that Zayn could sling his arms around Harry's middle, pressing kisses along the knobs of Harry's spine.

“I thought you would beg away earlier,” Harry murmured, playing with Zayn's hands where they were splayed across his stomach. “Try to come back to me before the dinner officially ended.”

Zayn was so tired he was slurring his words when he answered, Harry straining to make sense of the individual syllables. Harry liked to think of himself as essentially fluent in Zayn's tongue at this point, totally immersed in the language whenever he was at court, but Harry still struggled to understand Zayn on occasion. “We ended up talking politics,” Zayn yawned. “Lady Healy mentioned a few occurrences here along the coast. It was all news to me – the reports obviously had not yet made their way to the capital.”

“Occurrences?” Harry repeated. “What do you mean?”

Zayn shrugged, the soft tickle of his breath sending goosebumps along Harry's bare flesh. “Minor disruptions, little things. Rumblings amongst the peasants. I wouldn't worry about it, love.”

“You say that, but we stumbled upon a mob on the way here,” Harry pointed out. “I should think that any 'occurrences' or 'minor disruptions' should be cause for concern at this point.”

Zayn huffed out a breath that sent Harry's hair flowing along his shoulders. It sounded almost like a chuckle, but Harry couldn't entirely be sure. “I never realized how much you worried.”

“I'm not a worrier,” Harry protested. “I'm really not – you know that. I'm generally content to ignore and postpone and pretend as though things are all right, but I could very well argue that similar 'minor disruptions' were what led to my mother's death.”

Zayn paused, his grip momentarily tightening where he had been tracing faint patterns along Harry's stomach, before he slipped away from Harry entirely. Harry sighed, irritation buzzing underneath his skin, and turned over to face Zayn. Harry pushed his hair out of his eyes and attempted to pin Zayn with his gaze, but Harry's husband remained as shifty and difficult to read as ever.

“I know it is our habit, but we cannot keep dancing around our issues,” Harry continued, this time attempting a softer tone. Harry hoped he did not sound too needling. “We need to talk to each other and stop pretending as though things aren't wrong, not when all of the evidence is pointing to something else.”

Zayn's eyes were cold and distant under the weak moonlight. “What is the evidence pointing to, Harry?”

“I don't know, Zayn. You tell me.”

“I'm telling you that it's nothing,” Zayn replied. “I'm telling you that we should just go to bed.”

Harry wanted to scream. He almost did. The urge _thrummed_ through his body. Harry just wanted real answers. He wanted to feel as though Zayn was actually confiding in him like a future King would with his trusted partner, his spouse. But it was becoming clearer and clearer to Harry that theirs was not a relationship based on honesty and legitimate communication, no matter Zayn's repeated insistence to the contrary.

Harry and Zayn had encountered an execution on the way down to the coast – stumbled upon a mob hellbent on killing someone. And Zayn admitted that Lady Healy had relayed troubling news over dinner – information that hadn't even made its way to court and which kept him from returning to Harry at a decent hour. Yet here Zayn was, insisting that these signs meant _nothing_.

Harry remembered similar whispers of discontent back in Holmes. Messengers would arrive from far-flung territories with scrolls for the King, and Harry's father continuously disregarded the news of minor uprisings. The King insisted that rumors of stolen horses, minor skirmishes, and missing soldiers were probably the work of King Yaser and the mercenaries. They were still in the middle of a war, after all. Harry couldn't help but wonder now if some of those deeds were actually the work of that fiendish Earl George in his longstanding quest for wealth and power.

Harry exhaled, reminding himself that the Earl was thousands of miles away, and clearly not the threat lingering in the shadows here along the coast. Harry was not sure if that fact was comforting or not.

Harry supposed he deserved this – Zayn's skillful shielding of information. Harry had spent so much time at court carefully cultivating an image of himself as the hapless little Prince Consort, a boy more concerned with carrying his direwolf around court and cooing over babies than meeting with diplomats or attempting to grow his fortune. Harry obviously cared about frivolous things – Tessa and horseback riding and card games – but there was depth to him, too. He could recognize when he was being lied to. He could burn letters and ask Dukes to help him make threats disappear. Harry could be sneaky and manipulative, if that's what the occasion called for. Harry could be whoever he needed to be.

And awful as it sounded, Harry had become accustomed to a certain life at court. Holmes had been so poor in comparison, and Harry would be lying if he said he did not enjoy the wealth and leisure that Zayn provided. Harry loved gifts – loved Tessa and his horses and the rings and trinkets Zayn bestowed with delightful regularity. Harry loved receiving new clothing from the countryside, courtesy of aspiring costumiers attempting to cultivate Harry's favor.

If there were people on the fringe territories of the kingdom threatening the life Harry was building for himself, Harry wanted to be told as much, and he wanted those people to be dealt with accordingly.

Harry opened his mouth, poised to explain all of this to Zayn, but Zayn just shook his head and lowered himself back against the bed. “Matty and Taylor wanted to go out for a horse ride in the morning,” Zayn murmured. “You've traveled all day, love. You should get your rest.”

Harry huffed out a sigh and moved himself away from Zayn, turning over so that his back was to his husband once more. Harry closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around his chest, and willed himself to sleep.

  


Harry's annoyance did not dissipate in the morning. Zayn woke Harry with a series of kisses, drawing back the moment Harry sank into his arms and tried to pursue a morning romp. Zayn firmly reminded Harry that they were going on a stupid horse ride with Zayn's friends and that they would both need to get ready if they were going to meet the group in time. Harry wanted to beg off again, claim that he had a headache or some other ailment so he wouldn't have to go, but Harry did not want to be the source of gossip for Taylor, Louis, and the others, either. Harry cursed Zayn under his breath and made himself bathe and dress, meeting Zayn at the barn around midday in order to collect their horses for the day's activities.

Kevin and several other servants accompanied Zayn and Harry on their journey from the house. Harry remembered what it was like being along the coast almost a year ago – Harry and the others frequently traveled about the region without servants, gallivanting along the beach and organizing races through the woods. If Harry wasn't already convinced that things were amiss, the image of Kevin galloping in front of them with a sword slung along his back would've been enough.

Zayn and Harry made their way to a meadow not far from the Healy family home. There, they met up with several people from court, as well as some members of the nobility that Harry did not recognize. Zayn pointed them all out by name and Harry made polite conversation while the large group broke up into cliques and began organizing horse races. Harry declined to participate, instead making his way over to a large tree and settling underneath it, content to observe Zayn's friends.

After a few minutes, Lady Calder came and sat next to Harry on the grass, gathering the folds of her dress with slight, dainty hands. Harry had almost forgotten that she would be here for the wedding. Harry wondered if Lady Calder was envious of the happy ending Lady Swift was creating for herself. Lady Calder's wedding date was consistently being pushed back, her father and Louis constantly at odds over something or other. It certainly wasn't fair to Eleanor. She was really quite a beautiful girl, with dewy, mellow eyes, and long, flowing hair. When she turned to Harry with a smile, Harry actually had to fight against the urge to blush.

“Your Highness,” Eleanor greeted with a tiny bow of her head. “How are you finding the coast this go around?”

Harry scooted up on the grass closer to Eleanor, kicking up clods of dirt in the process. “It's even more heavenly than I remembered,” Harry replied. “Being here with Zayn and everyone else – it is all so lovely.”

“I'm glad,” Eleanor replied. “When you first came to the kingdom, Lady Swift went through such pains to have your house decorated to your liking.” Harry fought against the urge to roll his eyes, but he did not hide the tick nearly well enough. Eleanor was quiet for a moment, but when she spoke again, it was just a notch above a whisper. “She misses your company, you know. Taylor.”

Harry hummed noncommittally. Harry certainly had not spoken privately with Taylor for quite some time, but Harry was here for her wedding and he figured that was plenty. As far as Harry was concerned, there was nothing he needed to say to Taylor at all.

Harry knew that his grudge was a little silly, particularly compared to the way Harry treated others at court who had wronged him. But Harry had thought Taylor would be different than everyone else. So many noblemen at court clearly saw Harry as nothing more than a piece in their aspirations for fame and fortune. Taylor was supposed to have been a friend. And yet all Taylor had done was fill Harry's mind with thoughts he could not make any sense of – rumors, insinuations. Half-truths. And she was still stirring up shit – lying to Zayn and driving him to seek an audience with King Yaser before they departed Jinan.

But Harry wasn't supposed to think about that memory. He had shoved it down deep for a reason. Harry closed his eyes and tried to change the direction of his thoughts.

Still, Harry was convinced that if Taylor wanted Harry's company so badly, all she really needed to do was tell Harry something _useful_ for once. No subterfuge, no pretense. Certainly no insults about young orphan children like Sarah. Just the truth.

“Fortunately, I did not sit with you in order to badger you about Lady Swift,” Eleanor continued with a soft giggle. “I came to ask for your assistance. Your ear and your advice, or counsel, if you will.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, turning to examine Eleanor more closely. Harry could probably count the times that he and Eleanor had spoken privately for more than a few moments on one hand. Harry certainly enjoyed Eleanor's company and thought Eleanor was a lovely girl, but that did not mean they were _friends_. Harry could not think of any reason why Eleanor would seek Harry's company out and ask for his help over anyone else's.

But this did not mean that Harry would not hear Eleanor out. Harry's insatiable curiosity would probably be the end of him, but Eleanor appeared earnest enough, fiddling with her engagement ring and biting at her lip as though she was terrified that Harry would say no.

“If you think I can be of any help, of course I am more than willing to assist you,” Harry replied, bringing his hand and laying it gently on top of Eleanor's.

Eleanor exhaled, a long shaky thing that made the necklace in between her bosom rattle. “I'm asking for you to keep this an absolute secret,” Eleanor whispered urgently. “ _Please_ , Your Highness. You cannot even speak of this to your friends Nick and Niall.”

“You have my word,” Harry answered, his bewilderment growing with every passing moment. What could Eleanor possibly ask of Harry that she couldn't pester Taylor or one of the other Ladies at court for? Why did Eleanor specifically need Harry's assistance?

“I truly do hate to ask this of you, Your Highness,” Eleanor murmured hesitantly. “But I – I can no longer keep my discontent bottled inside any longer. Could you please ask your countryman to stop bedding my fiance?”

When Eleanor turned to Harry, the softness from her face had disappeared completely. Like this, even under the hazy warmth of the coastal sun, Eleanor looked hard and unforgiving, a far cry from the smiling, silly, tittering girl she frequently embodied at court. The juxtaposition sent something almost akin to arousal jolting through Harry's veins.

“I am _sick_ of having to pretend as though I have not noticed their intimacy,” Eleanor continued. “They even took a trip together a few weeks ago and thought I would not put the pieces together. It – it's honestly becoming unbearable. I will not stand for it.”

Harry squeezed Eleanor's hand again before letting his arms flop at his sides. Harry was hundreds of miles away from Jinan and dripping sweat under the sweltering coastal heat, but this was the first time that Harry truly realized that he was not the only person at court playing dumb. Eleanor Calder came from a long line of wealth and power, and Eleanor herself was regarded as a woman of beauty, charm, and talent. To some at court, her engagement to Louis Tomlinson was regarded as something of an abasement on her part. Harry personally saw it as a good match, and one that might actually bring some legitimacy to Louis' position at court, but regardless, Harry had never heard anyone utter a single cruel word about Eleanor.

Harry had never considered the possibility that her esteem and popularity at court had been the end result of years of careful calculation and hard work.

Eleanor was a direwolf in sheep's clothing, and Harry found this revelation absolutely exhilarating.

“I've already spoken to Liam about it,” Harry acknowledged haltingly. “But I asked Louis for several favors at court, and one of the conditions of his agreement was that I not bring an end to their _arrangement_.”

Eleanor scoffed, her lips twisting cruelly as she picked at blades of grass, braiding them in her lap with thin, deft fingers. “I won't ask the details of your favors, but. _Typical_. Do you think others at court are aware of Louis' infidelity?”

Harry shook his head slowly. “I don't think knowledge of the true nature of their friendship extends beyond our friend group. I doubt that even Prince Zayn knows the full details.”

Eleanor ducked her head, sucking her bottom lip in between her teeth as she thought. “Could you ask Payne to marry one of those girls he's always hanging around with? Lady Smith, perhaps?”

“I have thought about it.”

“I think it would be for the best. You can spin it as another way to demonstrate your countrymen's commitment and loyalty to King Yaser and his advisers, even,” Eleanor replied. She seemed to be considering each of her words carefully, examining them closely before letting them spill from her lips. “I cannot endure this embarrassment and disrespect, Your Highness, and neither should you. My fiance is making a mockery of us both – as well as Prince Zayn, who engineered the match between Louis and I – and we should not let that stand. We cannot.”

Harry turned to let his eyes consider the others where they were still riding their horses and roughhousing in the meadow. Zayn and Louis were resting close together, Zayn's clothes sweat-damp and dusty. He was breathing heavily when Louis leaned over and said something that made a smile bloom across Zayn's face. Harry felt envy settle heavy in his stomach, discomfort roiling through his body as King Yaser's angry words reemerged at the forefront of his mind – “ _What good would that be to me, to admit to questioning the nature of the relationship between you and Louis_?”

Harry attempted to push the memory away again, reminding himself that there was no point getting upset over relationships he didn't even understand, but the anger and uneasiness stubbornly remained, making his entire body feel unbearably warm.

Another task – a goal at court – would certainly help Harry keep his mind off such thoughts. He took a deep breath, disassembling the memory once more and placing the pieces back in that treasure trove where he hid all of his most terrifying thoughts.

“I'll see what I can do,” Harry promised.

Eleanor stood, brushing blades of braided grass from her dress before smiling and sinking into a curtsy. “It was a pleasure speaking with you, Your Highness,” Eleanor murmured. “I am grateful to know that we are on the same page. Please let me know if you need anything from me. Anything at all.”

“Of course, Eleanor,” Harry answered.

Eleanor made her way back down the meadow, running over to Louis and accepting his hand when he leaned over to bring her on top of his horse. Watching them smile and hold each other, Harry could almost believe that Louis and Eleanor were happy. Louis and Eleanor – two conspiring, manipulative, lying little actors.

They were certainly perfect for each other.

Harry stood and took a moment to ponder how long it would take him to walk back to his house overlooking the ocean. Probably something like half a day, and there was no way Kevin or one of the other guards would let him do it alone. Harry sighed, threw his shoulders back, and began his own walk down the meadow, imitating Eleanor's example and smiling up at Zayn as though nothing was troubling him.

  


Harry hated to admit it, but Matty and Taylor's wedding was actually quite lovely.

The ceremony was held on the Healy family grounds, a sloping sprawl of territory overlooking the sea. It was a calm, warm day, and the sound of crashing waves and squawking birds served as soothing music as the guests waited. Zayn and Harry were granted seats at the front of the ceremony, and they watched as Matty and Taylor beamed at each other and swore their vows as thick tears fell down their faces. They sealed their promises with a kiss, and immediately the wedding party was shepherded into the ballroom at the back of the house, where a banquet was awaiting them.

Harry and Zayn were seated at Matty and Taylor's side, and they observed the stream of guests walking up to the front of the room to congratulate the newlyweds. Harry watched the display objectively, leaning into Zayn's side and stealing a piece of bread from Zayn's plate.

“I had assumed that our wedding was an anomaly,” Harry admitted. He was not sure why the thought had crept into his mind. “That it was rushed and hurried for a reason. But that is just how your people do weddings, isn't it?”

Zayn frowned, turning his face to nudge his nose against Harry's. “What do you mean?”

“The vows. They were all very fast. I thought that was just for us.” Harry grinned, a cheeky superficial thing. “I thought we were special.”

“You're silly,” Zayn murmured. “Of course we're still special.”

Harry hummed and reached over to steal another piece of bread from Zayn's plate. “I don't want to stay for the whole party.”

“We have to stay,” Zayn muttered. “You know that, Harry.”

“I'll need far more wine than this, then.”

Zayn cast a sidelong glance at Harry but he smiled and flagged down a servant to fill Harry's glass nonetheless.

  


From then on out, Harry made it his duty to become fantastically inebriated. He felt as though he was owed this moment, a few hours of blissful insobriety. Harry had been wound so tight for so long that he hardly remembered what it was like to _not_ have a dull ache in the small of his back, or tension creeping through his shoulders. Wine would not make these problems go away, but they would allow Harry to forget. At least for one evening.

Harry's plan certainly went well for the first portion of the night. He ate and drank and even chatted very politely with Taylor before he remembered that he was still annoyed with her. Zayn introduced Harry to a handful of people he still had not met, including a musician by the name of Sir Pete Wentz. Harry immediately asked Zayn whether this traveling performer was the namesake of Zayn's prized goat, which led to Zayn flushing and suddenly begging off for a moment of fresh air.

When Zayn returned, Harry drunkenly attempted to coax Zayn out to dance, but Zayn refused Harry's wheedling. Harry's exasperation with Zayn instantly reappeared, so Harry stalked out onto the floor, hellbent on dancing with every pretty body he encountered. It probably was not the most mature decision, but in the middle of a vaguely inappropriate ditty with Nick, Zayn finally made his way through the crowd, steering Harry away from Nick and everyone else with firm fingers, a set mouth, and steely eyes.

“I was wondering when you would come rescue me,” Harry cackled, throwing his arms over his husband's shoulders and pressing a line of kisses down the column of Zayn's neck, swaying them in tune to the music. “I figured I would have to go over to Louis next in order to get your attention. Although maybe you would've been more jealous of me then?”

“What are you on about?” Zayn asked, digging his fingers into Harry's waist. Harry pulled back, letting Zayn peer at him inquisitively.

“You and Louis,” Harry drawled. Dimly, the rational, sober side of his brain was screaming for Harry to _stop talking_ , but Harry's mouth was moving on its own. “That weird thing you two had.”

Zayn scoffed, but Harry could feel his heartbeat escalate where their chests were pressed together. “You're drunk,” Zayn hissed. “You're drunk and you don't know what you're talking about.”

“'Course I do. Heard all about it. How King Yaser only brought me around to clean up your dirty name – ”

“Who told you that?” Zayn demanded, glancing around the ballroom wildly. “Who has been telling you this drivel?”

Harry shrugged. “What's it matter? What's it matter if it isn't true?”

There was one long, tense moment where Harry thought that Zayn was about to start yelling at him in front of everybody. Zayn's body certainly seemed poised for a fight, his shoulders thrown back and a storm brewing in his eyes. Harry wasn't sure he would've minded – perhaps a fight was all he needed to shake his own foul mood. But instead Zayn pulled Harry's hands from around his shoulders and wrapped his fingers around Harry's wrist, pulling Harry out of the ballroom.

Several soldiers were standing guard and smoking something heavy and musky when Zayn and Harry made their way outside. The men sank into sloppy bows, muttering their greetings and attempting to hide the evidence of their drugged state.

“Follow us at a distance, if you must,” Zayn barked, still pulling Harry along. Two of the men nodded their understanding, waiting a few moments before Harry could dimly make out the sound of the guards' footfalls behind them.

Alcohol was still sloshing through Harry's belly and turning all of his thoughts to mush, but Harry found that he wasn't scared. He wasn't worried at all, even though Zayn was dragging him away from the party, away from the lights and the music and their friends, and deep into the woods surrounding the Healy residence.

The trees were tall and thickly clumped, but Zayn appeared to be following a footpath that looped around the side of the Healy home. The only lights Zayn had to guide him were the moon and the stars.

Harry could feel his hand growing sweaty in Zayn's grip. “Where are we going?”

“Matty owns this entire promontory,” Zayn replied. Not that this was an answer at all. “Did you know that?”

Harry shook his head as he continued to stumble behind Zayn. “No.”

“His family is one of the oldest and wealthiest in the kingdom,” Zayn continued. “When my great-grandfather sought to unite the territories, Matty's family was one of the first he approached. You can imagine why. They essentially own this access point to the sea.” Zayn tightened his hold on Harry's wrist. Zayn's grip was so taut Harry was certain he would have finger-shaped bruises there in the morning.

“That closeness lasted throughout the entirety of the war. When my mother was pregnant out of wedlock, my grandfather approached the Healy family to see if they would raise the illegitimate child. The Healys considered it, but Lady Healy had fallen ill after her pregnancy with Matty. It's why she had retired to this particular property after spending so much of her life at court. They thought the sea air would do her well.”

Harry sniffled but otherwise did not respond.

“I did not learn all of those details until I had already known Louis for a year,” Zayn continued dully. “When he arrived, he was the talk of court – I'm sure you can imagine the stir his appearance caused. I was intrigued by him as well. I liked how brash he was and I thought I already knew every nobleman's child. My father frequently shepherded me out. I'm sure you understand – the typical pomp and circumstance whenever the King needed to raise taxes to pay the mercenaries and soldiers. I had felt like some sort of jester for so many years of my life. And yet I had never encountered this boy – this Louis Tomlinson. I knew his family was wealthy and had close ties to my own, so how was it that we had never met?

“People speculated about the nature of our friendship. People _always_ talk. But I had close friendships before and I knew that's how it would go. Louis and I – we never _did_ anything. I was honest with you when I told you that I had never laid with anyone before you. You were my first – my only.” Zayn let Harry's wrist drop and he suddenly turned and faced Harry, his eyes scorching as they slid over Harry's body. “Louis and I never laid with each other. We did not lay together before we learned that we were brothers, and we certainly didn't afterward.”

The next words left Harry's mouth before he had even given them one second of consideration. “But Louis knew you two were related before he even came to court.”

Zayn blinked, long and slow, almost like in a dream. “ _What_?”

“When Louis and the others were bringing me to Jinan, before our wedding,” Harry explained. “He told me that he had known you were brothers before even coming to court. Said that his adopted parents had told him as much.”

Zayn continued to stare at Harry with wide, dark eyes, but even in his drunken fog, Harry knew that he was recalling this particular memory with absolute clarity. The wedding party had only recently reached Harry's house along the coast, and Louis came bounding into Harry's room one morning to wake him. They somehow fell into a discussion about Louis' life prior to meeting Zayn. “ _My father told me that they had just enough money to help me become a priest, or I could go to court and try to make a name for myself there_ ,” Louis had said. “ _That's when they told me that my birth mother was the Queen_.”

Harry was certain that he hadn't misunderstood then, and he was even surer that he wasn't misunderstanding now. Louis' words had seemed clear – Louis had known he and Zayn were related before he ever stepped foot in Jinan.

“That's not true,” Zayn sputtered after several long moments had passed. “Louis had been just as gobsmacked by the truth as I.”

Harry snorted. “Well. Louis is a very good actor. We both know that. But what difference does it make? You two didn't ever _do_ anything either way.”

“Why are you saying it like that? I just swore to you that nothing sinful or inappropriate occurred.”

“And I believe you,” Harry lied, casting his glance up to the night sky. “Let's keep walking to – wherever the hell it is we're headed.”

Zayn crossed his arms over his chest and stubbornly shook his head, blocking the rest of the path. “No. We're – we're not going until you tell me who told you that horrific rumor.”

Harry lifted his shoulders. He wasn't sure why he was defending Taylor, but this story seemed like such a silly thing for Zayn to get stuck on – especially if it wasn't true like Zayn insisted. And ultimately, what did it matter who told Harry? As conniving and manipulative as this court was, Harry would have certainly heard the rumors eventually. “I hardly see how it matters.”

“It matters to me that there are people at court attempting to sow the seeds of discontent between us.”

Harry rolled his eyes, leaning against a tree. “It's not like it would be particularly difficult at this point.”

“ _What_?”

Zayn actually had the gall to appear hurt, his body turned away from Harry and a frown marring his beautiful features.

“You heard me,” Harry retorted. “You don't tell me anything. You disregard my feelings. You lie to me constantly.”

“I don't lie to you, Harry,” Zayn sneered, his sadness turning into something edgier, meaner. “I tell you what I can – you know that. And you're certainly one to list grievances. You don't do _anything_ at court. You sit around and fill your day with frivolity. You've made your entire life there a joke.”

Harry felt Zayn's words almost like a physical blow. Harry didn't _do_ anything? He didn't spend his days accommodating to Zayn's needs – Zayn's comforts and sexual desires? “What would you prefer I spend my days doing, Zayn?” Harry asked cruelly. “Should I play war games like you and Matty? Would you rather I scheme and plot and ignore my duties as your husband? Would you prefer I spent my days on my back, fucking Louis?”

Zayn blanched. If he looked hurt before, he appeared absolutely distressed now. “That's not funny, Harry.”

“It wasn't supposed to be.”

“Is that how you have spent your free time then?” Zayn asked. His hands were curled into fists at his sides, his anger tightly wrapped and thinly coiled. A trill of lust rolled down Harry's spine, as slow and sensual as a drop of sweat. “Fucking around with my brother?”

“No,” Harry answered. “Which you already know. We could never hope to keep something like that a secret. But he's asked me. Propositioned me. And sometimes, when I was upset, I considered it.”

Harry wasn't expecting it when Zayn swung, but Harry miraculously sidestepped the punch, grabbing Zayn's wrist as he extended his arm. Harry gripped the fragile joint between his fingers and used his strength to switch their positions, pulling Zayn into him before turning and shoving Zayn's back up against the tree. The air whooshed out of Zayn all at once, and Harry used the moment of disorientation to press his knee in between Zayn's legs, baring down hard.

“I may be useless with a bow and arrow but my father taught me enough hand to hand combat to make do,” Harry bit out. “Do you really think it wise to raise a fist to me, Zayn? _Really_?”

“You don't want to hurt me, too, Harry?” Zayn asked, huffing out a laugh and tossing his hair out of his eyes. Harry could not remember Zayn ever looking so bold. His beauty almost shone with it, making Harry feel woozy and disoriented. “Words, hands – what's the difference? We're fucked either way.”

Harry blinked, releasing his hold on Zayn's wrist. Zayn was breathing deeply, a flush dancing across his cheeks and collarbones, and he rubbed at his wrist almost distantly once Harry let go. He was watching Harry in a way that made Harry's heart pump faster, sweat collecting along his hairline and beading down his spine. “You _like_ this,” Harry murmured.

“I didn't realize you were so strong,” Zayn admitted. “And don't you dare say that you don't like this either.”

“I don't,” Harry answered. He wasn't sure whether he was lying or not. “You proved that you don't actually care about me. You just don't want me to embarrass you by bedding the entire court.”

Zayn shook his head. Even underneath the weak moonlight, Harry could see that Zayn's pupils were dark and dilated. “No, Harry. It isn't that. You _know_ it isn't.”

Harry's eyes darted down to regard Zayn's lips. They were as plush and inviting as ever and Zayn was regarding him expectantly. The urge to take Zayn in these cursed woods slammed through Harry's body and he shivered with the desire.

Harry knew that this was _wrong_. This was not what he wanted out of his relationship with Zayn. They were not supposed to yell at each other or threaten to hurt each other. They were supposed to put each other above everyone else. They were supposed to cherish each other and treat each other like porcelain. They were supposed to love each other.

Although maybe this new development wasn't particularly surprising, considering everything about their families' history. They had been sworn enemies less than two years before. Maybe they were only treating each other the only way they really knew how.

Maybe Harry had been right to doubt their declarations, the feelings he and Zayn claimed to feel for each other. Maybe, at the end of the day, when everything else was stripped from them – the wealth, the nobility, the honor – all Zayn and Harry had was _this_. Whatever this was. Attraction, certainly. But wariness, too, undoubtedly. And something else, something that ran deep and caused their blood to boil. Something Harry couldn't even entirely give voice to, but which Harry knew would keep him at Zayn's side above all else.

“There are guards watching us.” Harry's words ghosted across Zayn's cheek and Harry could feel Zayn shiver beneath him.

“If they didn't come while we were fighting, they won't come now,” Zayn pointed out.

“Are we not still fighting?” Harry asked, stifling a moan when Zayn pushed his groin up against Harry's. “Isn't that what this is?”

Zayn laughed, tangling his fingers in Harry's hair and pulling him down for a kiss. Harry's eyes fluttered closed, and for one glorious moment, Harry lost himself in the sensation. In the languid pulse of Zayn's tongue and the taste of wine on his lips.

Harry pulled away from the sweetness of Zayn's mouth, swiping his tongue over his own lips and putting both hands on Zayn's shoulders, pushing him lightly. Zayn grinned again and looked up at Harry through the fan of his eyelashes before sinking to his knees.

Zayn's hair was soft and thick when Harry carded his fingers through the strands, and Zayn's eyes were wide and eerily angelic when he glanced up at Harry and pulled Harry's breeches down to rest around his knees. Harry felt a tugging in his chest at the sight, an intense surge of power that caused him to grip Zayn's locks tighter and guide Zayn's mouth toward his cock.

It felt like an extension of their earlier taunts, of the blow Zayn had wanted to land and the insults Harry hurtled with the intent to wound. Zayn gripped the back of Harry's thighs with hard, bony fingers, hollowing his cheeks and sucking viciously, and Harry tugged at Zayn's hair so hard Zayn was emitting pained little moans around Harry's shaft. Harry tried to stave off his orgasm, but all of it felt like _too much_ – the alcohol still sitting heavily in his guts, the pleasure that swelled like an eternally cresting wave, and the perversely pleasant realization that Zayn and Harry were both manipulative asses. It should not have been reassuring, but Harry liked knowing that he and his husband weren't so different after all.

Zayn swallowed Harry's come and Harry reached his hands down Zayn's breeches in thanks, curling his fingers around Zayn's thick cock and devouring Zayn's groans when he spilled hot and wet over Harry's palm. Harry licked the evidence of Zayn's release from his fingers, smirking when he felt Zayn's spent member give an interested twitch against his thigh.

They sluggishly redressed, assisting each other with lacing breeches and dusting dirt and leaves from their knees. But once they were both decent, the sense of disquietude rapidly returned. The weight of their argument seemed to make a home around them, binding them together in something that would now most certainly define the borders of their relationship.

Harry ran shaking fingers through his hair as repulsion and hot bile crept to the back of his throat. Harry was consumed with the sense of disgust, a dirtiness that settled underneath his skin and rattled through his ribcage. Harry remembered people at court in Holmes, couples that stayed together out of convenience, or worse – out of a shared drive for wealth and power. Harry had always resented their presence and pitied their existence, even.

And now Harry was no better than the whole lot of them. Harry couldn't believe what his life had become.

“Should we talk about this?” Harry asked hesitantly. He could hardly look at Zayn full in the face. “No, we should. Right?”

“What's there to say?” Zayn didn't even throw the words maliciously. He sounded as tired as Harry felt, resting his head against the same tree and breathing evenly.

Harry huffed, tugging at his curls. “We should at least discuss where we stand now, Zayn.”

Zayn opened his mouth and shut it, a fleeting, thoughtful expression dancing across his face. “We stand together. Don't we?”

Harry licked his lip, considering. Harry poked through his feelings, assessing for points of damage and marks of strength. The disgust and resentment were still there, certainly. And Harry's guardedness felt larger and more impenetrable than ever. But Harry could not deny the gravitation between he and Zayn. Theirs might not be the type of romantic love told in the Knight Errant's tales, but it was certainly passionate. And perhaps there was grudging respect between Zayn and Harry now, as well as the understanding that they were equally matched in the horrible and degraded potentials they were willing to stoop to.

Harry nodded, a small jerk of his head that became more confident when the hint of a smile tugged at Zayn's lips. “Yes. We stand together, Zayn.”

Zayn reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind Harry's ear. “You keep catching me flatfooted, Harry,” Zayn confessed. “It should be infuriating but it's not.”

“I don't mean to catch you off guard. I just don't want you to keep information from me.” Harry paused, leaning into Zayn's space. Harry wondered if they smelled like each other, if Zayn could still taste Harry on his tongue. “Where were you going to take me? Before?”

“Oh,” Zayn laughed. His lips were cracked. They had been mildly dry before he had even stretched them around Harry's cock, but they were almost entire wrecked now. “I – I had just wanted to get away from everyone else. But now I think I want to show you where I went a few nights ago when I told you I was here at the Healy house for dinner.”

Harry wasn't even surprised that Zayn had lied about where he had gone that night. “Is that why you smelled like smoke and animal feed when you returned?”

The grin that swept over Zayn's countenance was both startled and pleased. “Yes. Yes – I. You noticed.”

Harry lifted his shoulders. “I notice plenty without commenting. Do you still want to go?”

Zayn brought his hands to rub nervously at his neck. When he finally nodded, he slid his hand down to cup Harry's. The gesture felt like both a question and a promise. “Yes, Harry. Let's go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I encourage you all to check my [Chase the Devil tag on Tumblr](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/tagged/Chase+the+Devil). I post teasers (usually at really inopportune times, I will admit), reblog art related to the story, and try to answer questions to the best of my ability without spoiling everything!


	16. Part Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Harry felt energized to show Zayn that he was entirely committed to this life they were forging together in blood and fire."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry that I've taken so long to get this up for all of you, but thank you so much for the encouraging Tumblr messages and comments here on AO3 while I muddled through this chapter. It really does make me happy to know that there are people actually reading this hahaha
> 
> Thank you as well to all of my beta readers, and to [Roxie for providing the artwork for this chapter](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/post/125483035436/chase-the-devil-part-fifteen-harry-felt-energized). There's so much hard work and moving pieces that goes into posting chapters of this fic, so I'm grateful that I've got such amazing people motivating me! You're all rock stars.

They did not leave the woods until early morning. Once they emerged from the thicket, Harry blinked dazedly against the streaming light and concentrated on the soothing early morning notes of birdsong. 

When Harry was younger, he used to sing under his breath constantly. Hymns, lines of poetry, even snatches of sordid rhymes he overheard whenever he made his way to the kitchens for a midnight bite. It became something he was known for at court – the young Prince with a sweet, angelic voice. 

If Harry had grown up during peacetime, this hobby could have blossomed into something beautiful and real. Harry could have received proper training from well-known vocalists, could have legitimately practiced, could have dazzled visiting luminaries with a talent blessed by the gods. But as it were, Harry's singing became another minor tidbit about his childhood, something that ultimately held little relevance within the life he was leading now.

Yet when Harry and Zayn emerged from the woods together, the first inkling of daybreak appearing over the horizon while birds trilled their own god-given song, Harry realized that he was humming, too. Zayn squeezed Harry's hand, the blossom of a smile tugging at his lips, and Harry accepted the reassurance, opening his mouth and singing at a fuller voice. It was an old song from Holmes, something Harry only half-remembered the lyrics to and which Zayn probably couldn't even understand, but Harry almost felt like his two worlds were finally melding when Zayn pressed a kiss high to Harry's cheeks and began humming along.

 

Harry wasn't used to keeping _real_ secrets. Of course, Caroline's existence was a disclosure Harry had maintained for months, and Harry had kept mum in the role he played in the Edwards girl's disappearance, but now Rebecca had been made privy to both of these facts, effectively meaning that Harry had no more secrets to keep to himself. For those brief handful of days, Harry's life was something of an open book. He was a young man with very little to hide.

But when Harry awoke late in the afternoon the day after Taylor and Matty's wedding, the other side of the bed still warm from where Zayn had been spooned against him, Harry realized that he now had more secrets to keep after their traipse through the brush the night before. For what felt like the first time in this new life together, Zayn and Harry were implicated in the same terrible, amazing mystery. The sort of frightful disclosure that could destroy them both. This went beyond hurtled insults during parties and frenzied encounters against trees. These were enchanting enigmas that could damn the both of them. Harry wasn't sure whether he was terrified by the potential or pleased that Zayn had finally chosen to tell him something important, something substantial. 

Harry tried to shake off his worries and the lingering unease from the night before. He yawned against a closed fist before calling down for servants to help him bathe and dress for the remainder of the day.

 

Zayn and Harry planned to stay along the coast for another two weeks full of food, drink, and good company. Harry's house became something of a meeting place for all of the young nobility drawn to the region for the wedding, and Harry took on the task of entertaining. He hosted tea in the morning, organized elaborate horse races down to the sea at midday, and planned elaborate feasts during the evening. It was a gorgeous, lazy, indulgent sort of life.

Harry could tell his companions enjoyed his efforts, and Harry found personal satisfaction in relaying their delight back to Zayn when the two of them climbed into bed together every night. Harry had taken Zayn's assertion that Harry didn't do anything of substance to heart, and now that they had their own shared secrets, Harry felt energized to show Zayn that he was entirely committed to this life they were forging together in blood and fire. 

It was strange that this sense of concord had settled after what was easily their worst fight, but Harry could also recognize that he and Zayn had never been stronger. They had stripped away the flesh of pretense, leaving nothing but inflamed muscle, cracked bone, and the wreckage of good intentions. 

There was nothing left to hide – both in how they related to each other when no one else was watching, and how they appeared in front of their friends. 

 

Nick and Niall were certainly quick to notice a change. There were only a few days left on this excursion to the coast, and then everyone would be loading up in their carriages for the long journey back to the capital. Many members of the nobility had gone off to some sacred site for the day, but as Harry, Nick, and Niall were not of this religion, they had opted to stay behind. Zayn had also made plans for himself, kissing Harry goodbye early in the morning and telling Harry that should anyone ask, he was to say that Zayn was off at the Healy family home. Harry had accepted the lie with ease, smiling knowingly at his husband before returning to his own thoughts.

Around midday, Harry found himself sitting outside on his porch alongside Nick and Niall, the three boys sharing a pipe and enjoying flutes of sparkling wine. Guards were standing a few yards away, same as they always seemed to be these days. Harry tried not to let their presence bother him – there were more important things to keep himself occupied with these days – but their ubiquity during this entire trip still made Harry feel jittery.

The heat was as oppressive as always, and Harry fanned himself lazily as sweat bubbled across his skin. Nick and Niall were discussing some of the nobility they had met over the last few days – pretty people they wanted to get to know better, whose family was running out of money, rumors that so-and-so was bedding a servant girl, silly things of that sort. Harry was only half-listening, thinking instead of the smoky, musky taste of Zayn's skin and their shared ambitions. He was smiling without even realizing it.

“You have certainly been in higher spirits,” Nick remarked, turning to Harry before taking a long pull from the pipe. He passed the piece along to Niall, exhaling smoke and grinning wolfishly. “Was it the ceremony? Did the wedding vows reinvigorate you and the husband?”

“Ha,” Harry murmured, glancing down at his palms. “It wasn't that. You know it wasn't.”

Niall hummed. “You and the Prince have certainly been thick as thieves the past few days. Nick and I were just curious as to what happened.”

Harry frowned, chastising himself so that he didn't shift guiltily in his seat. He knew it was probably foolish not to hide the most recent bit of information from his friends – his countrymen – but Harry felt obliged to keep this one secret. Nick and Niall did not need to know what transpired between Harry and Zayn deep in the woods behind Matty's home. Nobody did. 

“We had a long chat, I suppose,” Harry answered evenly. “We discussed our future as spouses in practical terms. I found the conversation to be tremendously reassuring.”

“And the heir?” Nick pushed. “Have you and the Prince discussed that at all?”

Harry opened his mouth, poised to stutter out a vague and reassuring remark, but a loud cry from the road disrupted the conversation. The guards keeping watch all stood in unison, and Kevin nodded toward one to jump upon his horse and gallop down the path. Harry turned toward Nick and Niall, bewilderment coloring all of their faces.

Kevin dashed over to the porch, sinking into a bow before climbing the steps. He came to stand at Harry's side, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder and squeezing the flesh. Harry was certain it was intended to be a reassuring gesture, but instead the move made unease trickle down his spine. “You weren't expecting anyone else this evening, were you, Your Highness?” Kevin asked.

Harry shook his head slowly. Over the past few weeks, new policies had been instituted – all for Harry and Zayn's safety, of course. Harry and Zayn needed to provide Kevin with a list of approved guests every morning, and all guests were also searched before entry onto the property. There were no exceptions. 

“No. I would've told you if I was, Kevin.”

Kevin nodded, looking down the path that ran from Harry's home to the main road. There were bushes and trees guarding the residence from peasants and passerby, and the other guard was blocking the small gap in the foliage with his horse. Harry dispelled a long breath, something that seemed to hang in the sun, and Kevin squeezed Harry's shoulder again before running down the footpath himself.

“What do you think it is?” Niall asked, chewing on the side of his thumb, the pipe he had been smoking now all but forgotten. 

“Some idiot trying to seek counsel with Harry, more than likely,” Nick replied. “Kevin and the others will get rid of him.”

Harry wrapped his arms around himself, a shiver making its way through his body despite the suffocating heat. Harry regarded his estate with fresh eyes, making note of the long, sprawling grounds, the trees and greenery which had previously seemed like a natural barrier. It had always been an open piece of property, close to the sea and lush with vegetation. But now, knowing what Harry did about the discontent seeping along the coast, Harry couldn't help but wonder whether he should build gates to fortify the home. The accessibility he had once cherished was now a liability.

“Your Highness!” Kevin bellowed, waving his arms at the end of the footpath. “I think you should come see this!”

Harry frowned but stood, slipping his boots on before he began making his way down the path. He opted not to run, instead taking his time down the long terrace as sweat trickled down his back. Harry came to stop beside Kevin and he let his eyes sweep over the scene before him.

There were a handful of men congregated on the road – soldiers, like Kevin. And judging by their dark skin and relative comfort with the heat, Harry would guess that they were also local forces. That in itself was not odd at all, nor was the fact that they had come by Harry's house. What was odd was that the soldiers had a small wagon hitched to one of their horses, and sitting on the wood was a dirty man tied up with rope and gagged with what looked like a soiled handkerchief. 

Harry didn't even know where to begin. “Uh – ”

“Your Highness,” the soldiers all murmured, sinking into bows and kicking up dust. 

“Can someone explain, please?” Harry asked, waving off all of the pleasantries.

Kevin cleared his throat and began speaking lowly. “These fine men disrupted an illegal congregation in a local nobleman's house, Your Highness,” Kevin replied. “The nobleman in question is now awaiting trial, but the peasants were thirsty for _this_ man's blood. The soldiers wanted to see if it was all right with you to relocate him while he awaits his own trial.”

Harry stared at Kevin. Harry felt as though the ability to comprehend words had completely deserted him. “The soldiers wanted to seek _my_ counsel? Shouldn't they check in with Duke Healy or – or with Prince Zayn?”

“They went by the Healy residence this morning and nobody was there,” Kevin replied gently, his eyes piercing where they held Harry's gaze.

Harry shrugged in response to Kevin's unanswered question. Of course, Harry knew where his husband _really_ was, but Harry would keep Zayn's secret. Their secret.

“But you are still a Prince in your own right. Your counsel is just as sacred and treasured. You can make the decision and these men will honor it.”

The soldiers were all watching Harry very closely. It was disorienting. Harry could not remember the last time he had been entrusted with a choice that had any sort of lasting implications. These soldiers were essentially asking Harry to make a call on this man's life. The pressure made Harry's stomach roil.

Harry jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Harry spun, relaxing when he noticed that it was only Nick. Nick grinned sheepishly before nodding over at the man in the wagon. 

“Look at his back, Harry,” Nick murmured. Harry raised an eyebrow but Nick only sighed and grew more insistent. “I walked over there myself, Harry. _Please_. Just look.”

Harry took a few steps forward, walking around the wagon to better see the man tied up there. Underneath the bruises, dirt, and grime, Harry could tell that the man was pale, significantly fairer than most of Zayn's countrymen. The man was also watching Harry warily, his blue eyes narrowed as he snarled around the gag in his mouth. Harry frowned, dragging his eyes down from the man's battered face to regard his clothing. His garments were all in tatters, brown with dried blood and filth. His shirt in particular looked as though it had been ripped from the back, the pieces hastily sewn together again. And there, on the man's back, was a marking that made the breath whoosh out of Harry all at once.

“We picked him up after some peasants had already gotten to him,” one of the local soldiers remarked. Harry hardly heard a word, still transfixed by the scarification on the man's skin. Harry had never dreamed he would see such markings again. “They tossed him around a fair bit, ripped up his clothing and threw rocks at him. Haven't had the chance to really clean him up since.”

“Your Highness?” Kevin interrupted the soldier's explanation, coming to stand besides Harry. “Is something troubling you?”

“That burn,” Harry said dumbly, brushing his fingers against the mark in question. The man twisted away from Harry's grip, his movements jerky and frenetic. Harry pulled back with a scowl.

“Ah, yes,” one of the soldiers piped in. “We've never seen anything quite like it.”

“You wouldn't,” Harry replied coolly. “Not unless you've ever been to Holmes. George's people take on those brands when they reach adulthood. It's a marker of that kin.”

“George?” Kevin repeated. “Like – like Emperor George? Usurper of the Holmes throne?”

Harry nodded tersely, tearing his eyes away from the brand on the man's flesh. Harry couldn't even remember the first time he had seen it with his own eyes, although it had probably only been something like three years ago. And the scar was nothing special, either, not like the elaborate and beautiful tattoos Zayn had dancing over his skin. Zayn's tattoos actually _meant_ something – signaled his rank and honor, his commitment to continuing his father's legacy. This mark – well. This mark did not equal anything virtuous.

The image of Earl George's people was a ram, and the marking itself was ugly and garish, nothing at all like the smooth, clean lines on Zayn's skin. The mark was caused by bringing a burning hot rod to sear against flesh, and Harry remembered Earl George drunkenly and inappropriately displaying his own brand once at some formal dinner. Harry was sitting next to his own betrothed, a silly girl Harry had no particular attraction to, and she had whispered reverently that she couldn't wait to take on the marking herself. Harry's betrothed had always been strangely obsessed with her father, constantly bringing the man up in conversation and making Harry feel both uncomfortable and inadequate. After this particular disclosure, Harry had skillfully changed the subject, hoping that he would never have to see that godforsaken ram ever again.

For a while, Harry assumed his wishes were granted. He didn't actually end up marrying the George girl, thank the gods, and he thought himself far enough away that he would never encounter anyone with that brand again. He had completely forgotten about it.

And yet, here Harry was, standing along the coast of his adopted homeland, his fingers dirty from where he had brushed his pads on one of the Earl's kinsmen. 

“What did you say his charge was again?” Harry asked, taking a step back from the wagon and turning toward the soldiers.

“An illegal meeting,” one of the soldiers answered quickly. “They were allegedly discussing treasonous plots, Your Highness.”

“And how long has this man been living along the coast?” Harry pressed. “Is he a recent arrival from Holmes?”

The soldiers exchanged a look amongst themselves before one of them piped up, licking his lips nervously. “We were not even aware that he was from Holmes, Your Highness.”

“Please investigate the matter and send me word once you have reached a conclusion,” Harry said. “If he is a recent arrival, there should be paperwork from Jinan in his residence. But in the meantime, I trust your judgment. I want this traitor to stand trial, so you can move him where you think he will be safest.” 

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, giving himself another long moment to watch the man in the wagon. The man was shaking now, his eyes wild as they darted around, looking at everything _but_ Harry. It took a moment for Harry to realize it, but the gradual awareness that this man feared Harry made something hot and unsettling sit in Harry's guts.

What reason would this man have to be afraid? Harry bit his lip as he mulled the thought over. Harry wondered if this man had been present for his mother's murder. The man didn't look familiar, but that did not mean he wasn't someone of rank. Perhaps he was a distant relative of George's, sent abroad specifically to further the madman's idiotic power schemes. There were plenty of reasons why this man should blanch in Harry's presence – Harry just needed to figure out which one was correct.

Whichever way Harry sliced it, this man was no friend. Earl George would never show Harry mercy, and this man trembling in the back of the wagon was probably terrified that Harry would treat him similarly. Harry let himself indulge in the fantasy briefly – ordering the soldiers to tie the man to the back of the wagon instead of granting him the luxury of sitting on the wood. The man's skin would bruise and crack as he was dragged down the road, his blood baking where it spilled upon the dirt.

But Harry knew who he was, and he was not that kind of ruler. He was not a tyrant, not a violent person in the least. His bloodlust, if you could even call it that, was for only one man.

“Are you sure, Your Highness?” Kevin asked gently. “If you truly think this man is from Holmes – ”

“I believe in upholding King Yaser's law, Kevin,” Harry interrupted huffily. “Take this man somewhere he shall be safe from mobs and then let him stand trial. The people can do what they please with him afterwards.”

Kevin exchanged a look with the other soldiers who all nodded amongst themselves. Harry smiled and began walking back to the house, his grin broadening when Nick fell into step behind him.

Harry would certainly be having a long conversation with Zayn when he returned.

 

“That traitor was most certainly sent here, you know.”

Zayn was twisting patterns on Harry's scalp, tugging gently whenever his wandering fingers encountered a tangle. It was long after sunset but still muggy, and Harry could hear the familiar trill of birds through his open windows. Zayn had returned very late that night, smelling of that now-familiar scent of smoke and animal feed, and he and Harry played several rounds of cards before making their way to bed. The sex was sweet and lazy, Harry wrapping his legs around Zayn's hips while Zayn sank into him slowly, almost reverentially. Afterward, when their panting had subsided and their heartbeats ceased to race, Harry brushed sweaty strands out of Zayn's eyes and burrowed into his husband's side, sighing when Zayn pressed a chaste kiss to his jawline.

But instead of falling asleep immediately, they talked. The conversation was slow, unhurried. Mostly mumbles. It was somewhat of an unspoken agreement, but they were both trying to be more open. No more pretense. No more secrets. It was strange, falling into bed and attempting to make sense of the day together. It reminded Harry of the very earliest days of their relationship, when they could talk about everything and nothing at all, still relatively in awe of each other. 

Zayn spoke of his adventures with Matty, Louis, and Liam during the day. Harry did little to disguise his jealousy but devoured the tale nonetheless. When Zayn concluded, Harry caught his husband up on his own afternoon encounter. Zayn listened carefully with narrowed eyes, bristling with anxiety and displeasure. 

“I know,” Harry murmured, rubbing sleepily at his eyes. “You should have seen the way the man flinched back from me. He was _petrified_.”

Zayn hummed. “He very well should be. What purpose do you imagine the Earl sent him for? An assassination?”

Harry shook his head in disbelief. “You think that man was an assassin? Living here – along the coast and not in Jinan?”

“It's expensive to live within the capital walls, particularly for a refugee with limited skills. And there's easier access to you here along the coast,” Zayn pointed out.

Harry twisted around in Zayn's grasp, sitting back in order to examine Zayn's face more carefully. Harry was sure that the marked man on the wagon was no friend of the throne, but Harry had not considered _this_ possibility, even though “treasonous plots” was certainly broad enough to include a murder conspiracy. “You think that man was sent here to kill – who? Me?”

Zayn's countenance was sinfully blank. “We cannot discount the possibility. I'm actually _very_ upset that Kevin even let you anywhere near the prisoner.”

“Kevin didn't know where you and Matty were. He was doing his best considering the circumstances.”

Zayn pursed his lips. “You're far too forgiving. I'm still having a conversation with Kevin in the morning.”

“And you can be far too damning, love. Nothing happened. I'm _fine_.”

Zayn grinned, a curve of his lips that bared his teeth menacingly. “You like it. You like that I worry.”

“I do,” Harry admitted, tapping his forefinger against Zayn's bottom lip, pulling along the chapped skin and flinching when Zayn nipped him playfully. “I'm rather fond of you indeed, dragon minder.”

 

Harry wasn't used to keeping _real_ secrets. Only little ones, tiny jealousies he could stow away in something like a child's treasure chest. But now the secrets he and Zayn shared were large enough to lay waste to kingdoms, to scale fortresses and proclaim new empires. These were the sorts of secrets people wrote great poems about – the stuff of legends. Harry figured it wasn't boastful because it was the truth.

Harry found himself following Zayn deep into the woods the night of Taylor and Matty's wedding. Their fingers were entwined, and the glimmering light from the wedding party had long given way almost entirely to darkness. Their path was illuminated solely by starlight and the eerie glow of fireflies. 

For a moment, Harry played pretend, like he was still a small child enchanted by children's things. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, he was Tessa, the Knight Errant's most cherished companion. A woman unafraid. Forged in phoenix fire and then – a twist! – reborn as a direwolf. It was certainly a nice tale. Harry had always wanted to find a way to cheat death.

But when Harry blinked again, he was just a boy. A boy following his lover deep into the woods. A boy trying to pass himself off as a man. Harry should have been terrified, and yet he was completely unafraid. Perhaps his lack of fear was due to foolishness.

They walked for what felt like both an eternity and no time at all, eventually coming upon a small, decrepit structure nestled amongst the greenery. The hut was nearly entirely overgrown with verdure, appearing almost as though it were built entirely around preexisting trees and vegetation. Zayn took a deep breath before venturing forward, pulling Harry behind him and opening a door weighed down by ivy. 

The hut smelled woodsy, earthy. Strikingly familiar. It took Harry a moment to place it, but when he did, Harry couldn't help but chuckle at himself. The scent was the same strange mixture of smoke and animal feed that Harry had detected on Zayn's skin a few days before. 

Harry hovered by the doorway, straining his eyes to adjust to the thick darkness. The hut appeared almost entirely bare on the inside, a long, one-room cabin with several baskets pushed against one corner and a dead sheep in another. Zayn squeezed Harry's palm before dropping his grasp. Harry crossed his arms over his chest and watched his husband traverse the room, the floorboards creaking and moaning with each step. 

“I forget what Matty said this hut was once used for,” Zayn murmured conversationally. Harry could just barely make out his shape through the dark, but Harry still felt fearless, almost as though he would never have cause for worry again. “But he seems certain that it has been on his family's property for hundreds of years. Before the war between our great-grandparents, certainly. Possibly even before this entire coast became overgrown with woods. And yet when I said that I needed a fairly isolated bit of property along the coast, he volunteered this structure quite readily. Matty and his family – including Taylor – are all very loyal.”

Harry ignored the aside about Taylor. “Why did you need isolated property?” Harry asked instead. 

Zayn was quiet for several long moments. “I knew when we went to Abbas that Louis would show you his dragon eggs,” Zayn murmured. “I know about a lot of the strange things Louis does, even when – even though I have mostly turned a blind eye to his attraction to you. But it's no matter. That's neither here nor there and – it's not what I want to talk to you about. What I want to say is that – well. Louis was able to hatch two of the dragons a few weeks ago. He's still saving the third one.”

Harry's breath caught in his throat. “What? When?”

“When he left with your countryman, Sir Payne,” Zayn replied. “Did you not notice their absence from court?”

Harry blinked, his mind flipping through what felt like pages worth of memories. But once Harry thought on it, Eleanor's hushed words a few days ago emerged to the forefront of Harry's mind. An allusion to a getaway between Louis and Liam – “ _They even took a trip together a few weeks ago and thought I would not put the pieces together_.”

“Louis came down here to the coast with Liam?” Harry asked slowly. “And you knew? You know that they're – ” Harry brought his hands together awkwardly, miming copulation, and he frowned when Zayn snickered. 

“That they've been bedding each other all over court? Yes, I was aware – it’s not as though they’ve been discreet. I was not entirely pleased, but I've known about them for some time. Louis likes having _projects_ and I like Liam. So long as Louis does what I need him to do, I try to ignore the rest. And if it means he's mostly leaving you alone . . .”

Harry scrubbed at his forehead and sighed. He had a sneaking suspicion that this entire conversation would end up giving him a headache. “So Louis brought Liam here to help hatch dragon eggs? How? _Why_? What do you need dragons for?”

“You're not stupid, Harry,” Zayn said, not unkindly. “You know why, and I'm sure you have a sneaking suspicion as to how.”

Harry frowned, recalling all of the tales he had heard from the War of the Five Kings. How Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen had miraculously hatched three petrified dragon eggs over her husband's funeral pyre. Harry remembered being awestruck by the Mother of Dragons, a woman who ate the heart of a stallion and walked through fire untouched. A woman of fire and blood.

If Louis and Liam were somehow able to hatch dragon eggs, they had to sacrifice something else in the process. An animal – maybe a goat, a ram. Something they found in the wild.

Or a person. Queen Daenerys had used her own beloved husband's corpse, after all.

“Did they kill somebody?” Harry whispered, leaning heavily against the door frame and staring through the darkness. Harry's stomach was lurching, bile threatening to burst from his throat. Louis and Liam could have very well used an animal. But that did not mean they had, and Louis was _smart_. The type to wrap up loose ends. 

The kind of man who would agree to get rid of a traveling warrior girl's party for one Prince and then use the same funeral pyres to hatch a dragon for the other.

Harry's voice was shaking when he attempted to speak again. “Did they use – ?”

“I don't know,” Zayn replied plainly. He did not appear troubled in the least. “I did not ask Louis for details as to how the dragons were hatched. I assumed they used a deer or something.”

Harry nodded dumbly. He understood Zayn's insistence on distance from the truth – of course he did. It was always better to remain ignorant to the messy details. Hadn't Louis once said as much to Harry? “ _The less you know, the better. . . . So just find solace in playing your typical oblivious boy part and leave the rest to me, hmm?_ ”

But still. This was darker than anything else Harry had encountered here in Jinan. If Harry's suspicions were correct, if the roiling in Harry's stomach was justified, this was _murder_ , a brutal and horrific crime. And beyond that, this was a plot that indicted several members of Zayn's inner circle. Louis, Liam, Harry, too, tangentially – and hadn't Louis alluded to another Duke's involvement in the young warrior girl's disappearance? “ _If there's blood on anyone's hands, it's not on mine or yours. It all comes down to another Duke and his Lady exacting their revenge._ ” Were Matty and Taylor the Duke and Lady in question? They had not left court much in the last few months, but they were certainly capable of engineering such an elaborate plot. Was this a sin that had tainted the entire upper echelon of Jinan's young noble society?

Were Zayn's countrymen truly this depraved and starved for power? Was Zayn?

“ _Harry_.” Zayn was suddenly standing next to Harry, his hands soft where they were cupping Harry's face. “Harry, love. You look peaky.”

“I feel weak,” Harry admitted, venturing a glance into Zayn's eyes. “I – how can you not feel the same way? If they – if they hurt someone, Zayn. . .” Harry trailed off and found he couldn't continue the thought.

Zayn took several moments to respond. Outside the hut, Harry could make out the weak howl of wind. The rustling of small mammals. Hooting owls. Small reminders that Harry was not alone in the universe, even though it almost felt as though he was. As though he was occupying the last little slice of sanity still left in the world.

“Did you ever ask about my father's peace committee?” Zayn asked suddenly. 

Harry blinked at Zayn. “No.”

“You weren't ever curious?”

Harry opened his mouth to respond but ultimately ended up humming evasively. “Perhaps.”

Zayn swept his fingers across Harry's cheekbone, smiling ruefully. “I can't remember now who proposed the idea to end the war with a wedding to one of your kinfolk, but my father insisted on an extensive vetting process. He did not want to bring just _anyone_ into the family, not after the debacle with my first betrothed. Matty was on the committee – I was barred from all of the meetings. But Matty told me that there was a lot of discussion, and ultimately they all settled upon you. They agreed – unanimously – that you embodied all of the ideals we hold dear. Loyalty, honor. And perhaps most importantly, ambition. And I know they were right, Harry. People have been in my ear since the day you've arrived, insisting that the committee somehow made a mistake. But I know they haven't. I know that deep down, you want the same things I do. You want security for this kingdom. You want to craft a name for yourself. You want a _legacy_. And we can build that, Harry. Together, we can accomplish anything.”

Harry bit his lip and averted his gaze. “But at what cost?”

“You think that your father never grappled with such questions of morality?” Zayn asked. “Your father – the warrior who leveled countless scores of men? Nor mine – the King who sent mercenaries to burn temples? Great men gaze in the face of destruction and still find a way forward.”

“You sound like Louis,” Harry spat. 

“And you sound like a child who has never thought about what ruling really means,” Zayn retorted. “The deed is already done. The dragons are here.” And then, softer, “What more do you want me to say, Harry?”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and tried to appear defiant. “I don't want you to say anything but the truth, Zayn.”

“Well, the truth is that I have coddled you,” Zayn replied. “This is the type of life we lead. We make the hard choices so others don't have to. So you must join me – ”

“Or what? You'll get rid of me?”

“Or _nothing_ ,” Zayn replied. “There aren't really any options here, Harry. You're not stupid – you're not the naïve little boy you masquerade as. Your display earlier proved as much. And you're certainly more power hungry than you let on.”

“I'm not power hungry at all,” Harry squawked.

“Bullshit.” Zayn's hazel eyes were as cold and dark as they had been earlier, tearing through Harry's pretenses while they fought against cold bark. “You've been plotting and scheming the entire time you've been here in Jinan. Rebecca has told me as much.”

Harry's eyes widened but he clamped down on the urge to press, to demand exactly what it was Rebecca had said. Had she told Zayn about Caroline? Or had she kept her word, and only spoke to Zayn about Harry's fervent desire to procure an heir? Did it even matter? 

“The plotting and scheming – all of it has been for you.”

“And everything in this room has been for you,” Zayn answered. His tone was so earnest Harry found that he _had_ to listen, had to turn back to Zayn's beseeching gaze and meet his wide, begging eyes. “Gods, Harry. You _know_ that I care for you. I've fought for you – I'm still fighting for you. And I've kept my secrets because I knew you would react like this. Lashing out without processing. Just _think_. Please, love.”

“For me,” Harry repeated, his tone dripping with skepticism. “You've maybe had someone killed – for me.”

“Nobody's been killed,” Zayn said. And maybe it was a lie, maybe it wasn't. Maybe Harry was throwing a tantrum for no reason. Harry had no real way of knowing – he would never ask. He knew himself, and he knew that he would never seek the truth from Louis or Liam. He couldn't live with himself if his fears were confirmed. “But yes – I asked Louis to hatch the dragon eggs for you. For us. Because there are real and horrible threats outside these walls and I want to keep you safe. You – and the heirs we will one day raise together.”

It should not have been that easy. Those should not have been the magic words – the murmured phrase capable of making everything click into place. But Zayn _knew_ Harry, perhaps better than Harry knew himself. And so Harry looked up at Zayn, at his husband's gorgeous, sincere face, and thought about his own aspirations. Harry's desire to make a better life for himself in Jinan. His penchant for fine clothes and even finer wine. His deep and real burning hunger for a child. His love for Zayn – this complicated, all-consuming, desperate love that made Harry do crazy, dangerous things. Zayn was standing before Harry, holding his face and insisting that their love ran both ways, that Zayn was equally capable of doing crazy, dangerous things for Harry.

Harry did not have to like everything Zayn did and he certainly didn’t. Hadn’t. But deep down, Harry could understand his husband's rationale. And he could turn a blind eye to the things Zayn did that unsettled him. He'd been doing it already.

These beasts, these _dragons_ , they were a living, fire-breathing reminder of all the things Zayn and Harry still needed to work on. A physical manifestation of their secrets and their aspirations. Harry was absolutely terrified of what they meant and what they represented. But he could deal with them and everything else that had been laid plain tonight. 

Harry recognized that Zayn had taken a risk by bringing him to this hut. Harry would similarly take a chance on Zayn and trust that his husband had made the right choice in having these eggs hatched. 

Harry took a deep breath and reminded himself of everything he and Zayn had already accomplished this starry, clear night. They were trying something new, and their romance could be a love for the centuries. They just needed to remember they were ultimately working toward the same thing.

Harry would protect his husband’s secrets and work to address the grievances Zayn had articulated earlier in the night. And if Harry did this for Zayn – if he accepted this strange olive branch for what it was – then Zayn would have to meet Harry on even ground, too. That's how partnerships worked.

Harry met Zayn's eyes with an even gaze of his own. “Okay, Zayn. I – okay.”

“You should talk to Liam, too,” Zayn continued. “You don't have to do it while we're here along the coast, but he's your countryman – your friend. He ventured across the wild sea and forsook all of his comforts in Holmes for you. Everything he's done in Jinan has been on your behalf.”

Harry gaped at Zayn uncomprehendingly. Why did Zayn need Harry and Liam to talk? And how could a conversation even begin to mend the deep well of distrust that now existed between Harry and Liam? 

“I actually fail to see how bedding your brother has anything to do with furthering my ambitions,” Harry remarked. 

“And I fail to see how Liam sleeping with Louis should be any real concern of yours,” Zayn reasoned.

Harry pursed his lips but decided not to respond. He and Zayn had already fought enough for one night. “Can I see them?” Harry asked instead. “The dragons. That's what you have in those baskets, yes?”

Zayn nodded, his eyes still as dark as the sea's depths. “Yes. Yes – you can see them.”

 

Harry's first inane thought was that the dragons were actually quite small, each about the size of a cat. There were two of them, the first emerald with flecks of gold, the other silver with navy markings. They had horns around their faces and along their spines, and they peered at Harry curiously when he approached them.  

“They imprinted on Louis and Liam,” Zayn had explained. “But you have no reason to worry. These two, they're smart – like your Tessa.”

And they _were_ smart. They certainly had the same sort of quiet intelligence Tessa possessed, examining Harry through the dark and gleefully accepting the bits of sheep meat Harry presented them. And they responded to Zayn when he crowed at them in the same low, soothing voice Zayn used with all of his animals. Zayn explained that dragons were capable of accepting basic commands, even small hatchlings like these ones. 

“They like you,” Harry marveled. “How – ?”

“Louis introduced me to them fairly early on,” Zayn replied. “He says they recognize that we have the same blood. But I think it might be because I've been helping them hunt.”

“You're like their nanny,” Harry mumbled haltingly. “A – a dragon minder.”

Zayn laughed, his eyes shining through the dark. “I think I like that title.”

Harry smiled and turned back to look at the dragons. The one with emerald scales was nudging Harry's fingers with the horns on her head, and once she realized she had Harry's attention, she only seemed to preen under Harry's gaze. Harry wasn't sure if dragons were capable of grinning, but it certainly looked like this one was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And don't forget to check my [Chase the Devil tag on Tumblr](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/tagged/Chase+the+Devil) \- there's art, really poor attempts at trying to answer questions without spoiling everything, and teasers.


	17. Part Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry had returned to Jinan and he was not particularly pleased about it. Along the coast, Harry and Zayn could operate as a unit. But back at court, Zayn was no longer just Harry’s husband. In the capital, Zayn was the future King first and foremost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for taking such a long break between Part Fifteen and this one. I hope that this installment is interesting enough to make up for the wait!
> 
> Thank you to all of my betas for reading over the chapter and thank you to [Camie for providing such an amazing edit](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/post/132126201901/chase-the-devil-part-sixteen-harry-had-returned-to) to accompany it. And thank you to all of you who are still sticking with this story, considering how much has changed since I first started it!

Zayn’s hands were wound through Harry’s hair and Harry was on his knees before him. They were all alone in Harry’s house for the night. The servants had left a few candles burning before they were dismissed, and the dim lighting cast a primrose haze across Zayn’s skin, the shadows throwing the dance of his muscles into sharp relief.

Harry glanced up at Zayn and pulled off of his cock, spittle and precome dribbling down his chin. Harry closed a fist around Zayn, jacking him slow but tight, letting his nails catch along Zayn’s slit. Zayn swore underneath his breath in a mixture of languages, the words sounding like both a prayer and a command, and dug his fingers deeper in Harry’s curls. Harry squirmed against Zayn’s grasp and squeezed his eyes shut, dots of pleasure exploding behind his eyelids.

Harry and Zayn only had a few days left along the coast before they were obligated to journey back to Jinan and resume their princely duties. Harry could not think of anything he wanted to do less than return to the folly and betrayal of court politics. Harry wished he could stay with Zayn by the sea forever. But instead of concentrating on such depressing thoughts, Harry decided to spend the majority of his remaining free time attached to Zayn’s side.

Or, in this particular moment, attached to Zayn’s gorgeous cock.

The day had been a full one. In the morning they tended to Zayn’s dragons, the two tiny and adorable animals capable of hellfire and devastation, and Harry watched as Zayn fed them deer meat and cooed to them as though they were some of his other barnyard animals. Later in the evening they changed into their traveling robes and headed to a party. Niall, in a moment of deep love for the coastal territory, had decided to purchase a modest vacation home several miles down the road from Harry’s, and a local Lady, Melissa Whitelaw, took it upon herself to celebrate the occasion. She insisted that it sent a real message to the King that one of Harry’s countrymen had put down roots in such a concrete way. Harry and Zayn agreed and together they provided a small monetary donation to guarantee that the get-together was a raucous affair.

And it was. There were large goblets of fine wine imported from one of the conquered territories, a decadent spread of desserts, stuffed hens and vegetables, and an entire roasted boar. Matty and Taylor were both playing music and singing, gazing upon each other with the soft, naive eyes of newlyweds, and Louis led a very complicated and expensive betting game in the Lady’s gardens. It was the sort of hedonistic display Harry could not remember seeing any of Zayn’s people engage in before. Everyone was drunk and extraordinarily pleased with themselves, fingers eagerly reaching out for the nearest available body. Harry hardly even saw Niall, not with how quickly he was whisked away by the hostess.

Kevin guaranteed that the princes returned to Harry’s property in one piece, but they dismissed him for the night after they fell into the house, knocking over vases and bumping into portraits in their haste to rid the other of clothes. They spilled into Harry’s bedroom and fell against the sheets, Zayn’s lips scalding where they glazed against Harry’s skin. Harry wondered whether their drinks were supplemented with an aphrodisiac, curious why his fingers were so clownish and inept as he tossed off Zayn’s chemise and began undoing the laces of his breeches. Perhaps Harry was merely distracted, his own arousal spiked by Zayn’s open-mouthed kisses, heavy-lidded eyes, and murmured promises. Perhaps Harry was really just that eager, that full of lust for his husband.

Harry wanted to make it last, to take his time with the angular lines and hard planes of Zayn’s body, but he also wanted to make Zayn come undone. The impulse to wreck Zayn won out, so Harry slid off the bed and sank to his knees. Harry wrapped his hand around his husband’s cock, jacking it slow while Zayn’s breath hitched, and then he brought his tongue out to taste, too. From there it was all a frantic blur, Harry swirling his tongue around Zayn’s length and reveling in the smell of sweat and sex that blanketed their bedroom. Zayn submerged his fingers into Harry’s curls, nails scraping against scalp and yanking locks, and then he was coming, his release hot and thick where it hit the back of Harry’s throat.

Harry pulled off and swallowed, grinning to himself as Zayn attempted to catch his breath. Harry pulled off his own robes in the interim, tossing them onto a piece of furniture. Zayn lifted his head up, still breathing heavily, and lifted an eyebrow in the direction of Harry’s cock, but Harry shook his head and crawled next to Zayn on the bed.

“Not tonight,” Harry murmured, draping himself over Zayn’s back and pressing a kiss behind his ear. “Hardly think I could finish.”

“You did guzzle an entire jug of wine,” Zayn said, tilting his head so Harry could nip at the skin of his neck. “But I can certainly lend you a hand in the morning.”

Harry hummed, letting his fingers run through the coarse hairs below Zayn’s navel. “Do we not have any events to attend before noon?”

“I presume that everyone will be too tired from tonight’s festivities to be of much use until well into the light hours,” Zayn said. “Louis did mention that he, Liam, and Matty would like to take a ride along the beach, but we can postpone that for another day.”

Harry drew his hand away from Zayn and pursed his lips. It was not a deliberate choice — Harry could not help that the mere thought of Louis and Liam was guaranteed to send him into a mood these days. And Zayn noticed, throwing his hand over his eyes with a groan. 

“All of this would be resolved if you just spoke with poor Liam, you know,” he said. “I honestly do not care what your and Louis’ relationship consists of, but this bitterness and anger toward the young knight — it’s not who you are. You need to repair your friendship with him. He’s your countryman and oldest friend.”

“Yes, he is my countryman, but he irreparably destroyed my trust,” Harry muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. He did not want to have this conversation right now, not when both of them were nude and sweaty and so recently coasting the high of a lovely night spent together. He did not want to have the conversation ever, actually. “And I do not wish to speak more on the matter.”

Zayn turned, pushing Harry flat against the mattress, and placed his hand on Harry’s chin. His hands were soft but firm, tilting Harry’s face so their eyes met. Harry tried to blink and look away but Zayn just tightened his grip, sighing until Harry complied. 

“I do not want to command you to do anything, but you need to address this,” Zayn said. His tone somehow managed to sound both understanding and unyielding. “People at court have begun talking.”

“Why should I care what people at court are saying? They all think I’m useless anyway.”

Zayn sighed, giving up all pretenses and crawling on top of Harry completely. “Sometimes I wonder whether you are utilizing that tremendous, astute brain of yours at all,” Zayn remarked. “Because a perceived rupture between you and your countrymen is a _weakness_ , Harry. And weaknesses can be exploited.”

Harry blinked. He did not understand how his and Liam’s distance was a weakness. Harry disassociated himself because Liam and Louis’ affair was the real vulnerability. Liam had been providing Louis with personal information about Harry — about the prince he was honor-sworn to protect. Harry could not be exploited if Liam was no longer privy to important secrets. Harry was safer now that Liam was no longer as close.

“Liam will do anything in order to regain your favor,” Zayn continued. “I am sure of it. He languishes about court like a stray dog. And that is where you become weak. Where we _both_ become weak. Because somewhere along the line he will do something foolish in a misguided attempt to repair your broken friendship.”

“B — both of us?” Harry repeated. “But Liam does not know anything about you, Zayn. Nothing of importance.”

Zayn scoffed, leaning forward and pressing his lips to Harry’s. “An attack against you is an attack against the both of us,” Zayn murmured. “We already know that there are threats here along the coast. I have vowed to keep you safe. I intend to keep my promise.”

Harry hummed, dragging his hands to rest along Zayn’s hips. Harry knew that Zayn was worried, but to be fair, they both were. The entire trip to the coast was characterized by an undercurrent of violence and unease, a murmur that started when Zayn and Harry stumbled upon a mob during their initial journey, and which continued when soldiers brought a prisoner from Holmes to Harry’s property. If things were different, if Harry were back at Holmes and his mother was still alive, the Queen would bury her nose in his hair and whisper that old Stark saying. But Harry was here, hundreds of miles away from his homeland in a kingdom of heat and endless summer. Winter wasn’t coming, Harry knew that, but _something_ was.

“You know that I will do anything to guarantee your safety as well,” Harry said. “But do you know something that I don’t? Is there something you are keeping from me? Should I be worried?”

Zayn leaned away from Harry and shook his head. “No. I just don’t want to leave any stone unturned. Liam is an asset and a resource — don’t make that face. He _is_. He’s done so much to guarantee your safety and comfort here and in the capital, even now that he is not your sole guard. He is an exceptional warrior, and I would prefer that both Kevin _and_ Liam were part of your personal detail. So talk to him. _Please_ , Harry. Don’t make me ask again.”

Harry expelled a long breath. It wasn’t fair that Zayn had chosen to request this of Harry now, but Harry had always known that he wasn’t the only one in this relationship capable of using sex as a bargaining chip. If they were back to playing this game, so be it.

“Fine,” Harry huffed. “I will talk to him once I return to Holmes. Will that satisfy you, Your Royal Highness?”

Zayn laughed, his eyes crinkling with his mirth. When he crouched down and caught Harry’s lips again, Harry swore he could taste Zayn’s happiness on his tongue. “It pleases me greatly, love.”

Harry scratched his nails against Zayn’s hips, smirking at the hiss the Prince expelled between parted lips. “Will I get rewarded for my cooperation?”

“I’m sure I can think of something,” Zayn whispered. He leaned across Harry and pinched out the candles dancing on top of the bedside table.

 

“I appreciate that you have invited me here today, Your Highness,” Liam began, biting his bottom lip anxiously. 

Harry and Liam hadn’t been close to each other in so long. Liam’s face looked fuller than Harry remembered it, and he had been smiling so largely when Harry welcomed him into the room that his eyes shone in the afternoon sun. He seemed happy and healthy. Harry wondered if their distance was similarly kind on his countenance, but he doubted it. Harry’s days were characterized by periods of severe laziness and waves of crushing anxiety. 

“I have missed your company dearly,” Liam added.

Harry had returned to Jinan and he was not particularly pleased about it. The air was cleaner on the coast and his life was freer, less constrained by rigid expectations. Along the coast, Harry and Zayn could operate as a unit. They could attend events together, could spend hours racing horses in the sand or discussing old tales from their youth. But back at court, Zayn was no longer just Harry’s husband. In the capital, Zayn was the future King first and foremost, and his days were cluttered with meetings. He spent hours in the morning listening to the grievances of townsfolk, and then in the afternoon he and Matty met with the King and his advisors to discuss whatever the most pressing issue of the day was. The conquered territories required constant tending, and King Yaser was similarly concerned with the unrest in Holmes and resulting waves of families arriving in search of asylum. It was a strange time, one full of ambivalence and confusion, and Harry hoped that Zayn would forget about his promise to meet with Liam in the shuffle. But Zayn remained insistent, and so here Harry was.

Harry peered down into the gardens beneath his window, and when he squinted he could make out Zayn and Matty taking a walk out in the gardens. Their heads were bent close together and their robes fluttered with the calm westerly breeze. Harry wondered what the topic of their conversation was, whether Zayn would arrive to dinner buoyed and exuberant, or drawn and pensive. 

“The Prince suggested that I talk to you,” Harry admitted. “This meeting was not entirely my design.”

“Well, perhaps I should pass my thanks along to Prince Zayn.” Liam had a slightly teasing note to his tone, but when Harry let himself consider Liam again, the other man’s eyes were surprisingly difficult to read. Harry had never been unable to sense Liam’s moods and thoughts before. Harry wondered if that was because of their row, or due to Louis’ meddling and influence. Perhaps it was a combination of the two.

The air in the room seemed heavy, an awkwardness blanketing the two young men as they continued to regard each other. Harry and Liam had once been _so_ close. Liam had been Harry’s bodyguard and confidante for years. He was one of Holmes’ fiercest soldiers, and King Des had personally hand-selected Liam to guard and protect his only son. Liam was a man who had forsaken his own dreams and military aspirations in order to accompany Harry to Jinan. So how was it then that he could fall into bed with Louis, and so readily at that? Liam certainly knew Harry better than to assume that he would never find out, and yet when confronted, that was the first claim Liam had produced. 

Harry knew that Zayn didn’t understand his anger, and to be honest, Harry could not entirely make sense of his feelings on the matter either. However, somewhere at his core, the whole affair made Harry feel as though he had been played for a fool.

“You know I never meant to hurt you,” Liam attempted hesitantly. He was fiddling with the cords hanging from his chemise, same as he had always done when he was distressed. Harry wanted to reach over and still his fingers, but no longer felt as though he were allowed. They were not the same boys they had been and Harry was hesitant to believe they ever would be. They had both grown in different directions. “Everything I’ve done — _everything_ , Harry — has been for you.”

“So falling into bed with the Lord Duke was a decision you made on my behalf?”

Liam let his shoulders slump. “I thought it might be of some benefit,” Liam said. His sentences were slow and halting, as though he were picking them very carefully. Liam was never selective with his words. He always said the first thing that came to mind and insisted that he had no need for caution or politicking. This change stank of Louis and his clout. “He was charming and I thought it might be helpful to have a friend like him at court.”

“Then why not say as much when I first confronted you on the matter?”

“Because I did find myself caring for him. I — I wanted to defend him.”

Harry scoffed. “And you still do. You began bedding him because you were attracted to him and were curious about his sexual prowess — don’t insist otherwise. You have always been a horrible liar, Liam. It’s why the King assigned you as a personal bodyguard and did not allow you to lead troops into war.”

Harry knew that his words had their intended impact because Liam ducked his eyes and frantically worried his bottom lip between his teeth. It was one of the few things they never openly discussed — Liam’s ambitions to become a General and King Des’ insistence that Liam’s skills were better utilized elsewhere. It was an honor to be in direct service to a prince, Harry was sure Liam knew that, but Harry also knew Liam had envisioned it as a short-term assignment. At least initially. 

“I do promise you that I thought I would be able to work the arrangement to your benefit, Your Highness,” Liam murmured. Harry could not remember the last time Liam had addressed him so formally. It felt like something from the first months of their friendship, when Liam tripped over his words every time he had to address Harry directly. “I never would have made the decision if I thought it would cause you any grievance. That was never my intention.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Harry answered. “But I do doubt that espionage was your primary concern. If it was, you would have come to me, and we would have devised a strategy together.”

Liam nodded. “You — you’re right, Your Highness.”

“Of course I am.”

Harry stood, walking directly over to the window and peering out of it. Zayn and Matty were still meandering through the garden, but they had since been joined by a dark haired figure that could be no one but the source of Harry and Liam’s discussion. Harry’s lips curled into a sneer and he turned away from the glass, closing the curtains.

“Your Highness?” Liam asked falteringly. “May I speak plainly with you?”

Harry leaned against the curtains and lifted a shoulder. “Of course.”

“You remember all of the Knight Errant’s tales,” Liam said. “You remember how important they were to me growing up. To all of us, really.”

Harry tilted his head and tried his best not to frown. He had no clue where Liam was going with this conversation, but he did not want his confusion to show on his face. “Yes. You know I do.”

“You remember my favorite story was always the one where the Knight and his merry band stumbled across a baby dragon that fell down a well,” Liam continued. “The Knight helped a young prince find the hatchling and rescue it from a most certain drowning.”

“Yes,” Harry said, the edges of the story seeping out of the recesses of his memory. “The hatchling didn’t realize it could fly yet. But with the Knight’s help, the dragon spread his wings and darted out of the well.”

“I always wanted to be like the Knight Errant,” Liam said. “I always wanted to help people — to be of assistance to young royals who needed my guidance and expertise. To rescue dragons from wells.” Liam looked up at Harry, his brown eyes wide and watery with his sincerity. “You’re the young prince who needs my help, and you’re also the baby dragon who doesn’t realize the extent of his gifts yet. I just want to help you, Harry. However I can. Even if it means bloodying my own hands.”

Harry froze, his fingers grasping at the folds of his robes. Suddenly he was transported to the night of Taylor and Matty’s wedding, an evening of tremendous highs and terrifying lows. Harry remembered hurtling insults at Zayn before walking through bleak darkness. Harry remembered encountering baby dragons, little scaly things completely unaware of their ghastly potential. And Harry also remembered the fear that disrupted his bowels and made his hands tremble. 

Zayn had told Harry that Louis and Liam hatched the dragon eggs together. Harry remembered the old stories from his youth, tales of Targaryen dragons born from fire and death, but when Harry asked whether Louis and Liam had used an animal or a human to hatch the two dragons before him, Zayn was not able to produce a real answer.

“ _I did not ask Louis for details as to how the dragons were hatched_ ,” Zayn had said. “ _I assumed they used a deer or something_.”

There were two dragons sitting in the forest overlooking the coast and Zayn had no clue how they came into existence. And there was also a young warrior princess who had gone missing, and nobody at court seemed too concerned about her disappearance.

Harry wasn’t the type to leap to conclusions. Harry also wasn’t the type to worry about matters that didn’t concern him. But Harry was intimately involved in the Edwards’ girls disappearance — had explicitly told Louis to guarantee that she not arrive at court — and he already had suspicions that several noblemen quietly disposed of the poor girl. And here Liam was, saying that he would help Harry however he could, even if it meant sullying his hands with gore.

Why would Liam pick that as an example? Was he speaking in hypotheticals, or had he already done it?

“If you are alluding to sacrifice and dragon eggs, I don’t want to hear anything more of it,” Harry declared. Harry was tired of speaking in circles and riddles. Liam was one of his oldest friends, and even if they were quarreling, Harry would still insist upon speaking plainly. “You _can’t_ , Liam. I don’t know what you’ve been told, but murder, intrigue — that’s not the type of kingdom I want to run.”

Liam had the gall to appear bewildered. “But Louis said you knew about Princess Edwards — ?”

“What did I just say?” Harry squawked. His heart was pounding out of his chest and he felt faint. This was not what Harry had in mind when he asked Kevin to call Liam up to his rooms today, but maybe it should’ve been. Perhaps Harry should’ve been less concerned with Liam and Louis’ romantic affair and more preoccupied with the murder that had been committed right underneath his nose. “I — whatever it is you are speaking of, I do not wish to know _anything_ about it. Oh gods.”

Liam hunched forward in his chair, rubbing his temples. His eyes were darting wildly about the room, and his skin suddenly seemed less ruddy and far paler. “I didn’t harm her, Your Highness,” Liam said. “When the Healys transported her to us, she was already d — ”

“Are you not listening to me at all?” Harry was on the verge of tears. “Please do not make me command you, Liam. _Please_.” 

Harry was not prepared for this. Zayn had been right the night that he showed Harry the dragons. Harry truly was a child completely indisposed to a life of bloodshed and machinations. He was a boy who had pretended that the war between their kingdoms didn’t exist until his father was literally cut down by it. He was someone who vomited after executions and sobbed for days — weeks, really — when he was betrothed to a stranger. Harry was not strong enough to make his own problems disappear, nor did he have the constitution to create dragons out of flesh and fire and bone. 

Queen Anne must have sensed this in her son. That was why his mother remarried and blocked Harry from ruling over Holmes. That was why she engineered a match between Harry and Zayn. Harry, at his core, was too weak for the absolute power of the throne. Zayn was the strong one, the natural leader and the son of a ruthless, calculating King, and Harry knew that Zayn was prepared for the power and responsibility he’d been entrusted with. Harry could live with the reality that he was at his best standing at Zayn’s side.

For what felt like the millionth time, Harry was grateful for his mother’s foresight and wisdom. She really was an expert ruler and Harry missed her dearly.

Liam leapt from his seat and guided Harry to the chaise in the middle of the room. Harry laid back against the cushions and watched distantly as Liam poured him a glass of water. It was nice having Liam’s keen, worried eyes on him. It felt like old times, all the nights Liam spent mothering Harry after hours filled with dancing, fucking, and mulled wine.

Except now Harry couldn’t help but imagine the same hands lighting fire to a body, the palms slick with blood.

“We’re supposed to be in peacetime, Liam,” Harry murmured. “That’s why I’m here — why we’re both here. We’re supposed to be at peace, and you shouldn't have to bloody your hands on my behalf.”

Liam paused. His hands were clutched around the goblet, and Harry’s rooms were eerily dark now that he had the curtains closed. Liam seemed like nothing more than a silhouette, a shadow.

“Louis told me that in Jinan, they never truly have a winter. At least, nothing like the snow and frost we became accustomed to in Holmes,” Liam said. “But this year the cold months were exceptionally bright. The elders are saying that it might be several years of summer.”

Harry grunted. “Several years of relentless, suffocating heat. How wonderful.”

“But you know what your father used to say about blood in the summer,” Liam continued. His movements were stiff, rigid. “How it still manages to steam just like carnage does against the snow.”

Harry didn’t answer. He just gestured for Liam to hand him the cup and downed the water as though it were something far stronger.

 

Harry spent the subsequent days primarily outside of the castle walls. He visited the university and meandered through its long, winding halls to visit Professor Sheeran and check on the new library’s progress. He journeyed to the marketplace and accepted compliments from the vendors, smiling awkwardly when old women with wizened hands and cloudy eyes thrust plums into his palms. And he rode his horses on the old dirt paths right outside of the capital, familiarizing himself with the roads and spending hours alone with Kevin.

Harry’s head was swimming from his and Liam’s earlier conversation. Harry had absolutely no clue how to move forward. He could not confide in his other countrymen about it — they were all close, certainly, but discussing dragons and his own role in what seemed to be an intricate murder plot did not seem like the type of thing Harry should broach with Nick and Niall. Harry did not know if he could raise the topic with Zayn, either. Zayn had made it clear that he did not need to know anything about how the dragons came into existence, and Harry was sure that Zayn would wonder why Harry cared so much. Harry did not want to confess that Zayn’s previous betrothal had made him reckless and paranoid. However, Harry did find it interesting that Zayn chose to remain oblivious. Zayn was the type of person who reveled in knowledge, who seemed constantly in pursuit of the truth. For not the first time, Harry wondered if he would ever be able to figure his husband out.

So Harry was left to ruminate in his own thoughts, with absolutely no one to confide in. Harry even wished that Caroline was there to lend her ear and offer her strange advice. But Harry had not seen Caroline in more than a fortnight, not since Rebecca had detected her presence along the coast.

Harry sighed to himself and continued on his sojourn. This particular day he decided to ride along the route leading out of Jinan, the same path his and Zayn’s carriage traveled for their honeymoon. Kevin was with him, his gait lazy even as his eyes remained sharp and assessing, but there were few travelers out on the road beyond the usual farmers headed to the market. They all pulled off their hats or scarves as they passed by, smiling warmly with mouths full of missing teeth.

Harry and Kevin were about two miles outside of Jinan when they noticed a small figure ambling down the middle of the road. It was a young girl, with long unruly curls and brown skin. Her clothes were filthy and tattered and there were no shoes on her feet, but she had what looked like fruit clenched between her fingers. She resembled a beggar, the type Harry saw lingering at the edges of the market, faces gaunt and eyes sunken.

It took Harry a few moments to recognize her, but once he did, Harry gasped and immediately leapt of of his saddle, ignoring Kevin’s protestations in order to run toward the poor child.

“Sarah,” Harry cried, making his way to the servant girl and crouching before her. She was even filthier up close, looking nothing like the clean, well-dressed court attendant she had been the last time Harry encountered her. She had aged in the interim, taller than Harry remembered, but she was also covered in a layer of dirt, a bruise purpling around one of her eyes. Sarah was only a child — she couldn’t possibly be older than eleven or twelve. But someone had clearly struck her and felt absolutely no qualms in doing so. 

Harry felt a swell of protectiveness, his own eyes watering when Sarah’s bottom lip trembled. But then she was stumbling into Harry’s arms, a sob wrenching out of her as she buried her head into Harry’s neck.

“Sarah, what’s happened?” Harry murmured, running his hands down the girl’s back. “Why — why aren’t you at court?”

“I — did Kevin not tell you?” Sarah asked, pulling away from Harry and wiping at her eyes. She darted to look at Kevin, who had since brought their two horses further up the road to stand behind Harry.

“The young village girl had to abandon her post,” Kevin sniffed. “Her lush of an aunt made it quite plain that Sarah’s services were best utilized elsewhere.”

“But wasn’t it your aunt who said you should go find work at court?” Harry asked, turning back to gaze at Sarah. “I distinctly recall you saying that.”

“That was before Uncle died,” Sarah mumbled. “His fever never broke and the gods took him.”

Harry winced, taking Sarah’s hand in his own and patting it. “I’m so, so sorry, love.”

“It’s — it’s fine,” Sarah continued. “He was in a lot of pain and now he is not. But I think his wife blamed me — or I dunno. She’d always been mad at my Uncle for taking me and Joshua in after our mom died. Said it wasn’t his job to take care of a whore’s bastard children, least of all a mouthy brat like me. At least Joshua can grow up to be a soldier or someone of importance and coin, but she always said the dowry I’d bring in wouldn’t be worth the hassle of raising me.” Sarah sniffled, digging her fist into the corner of her eyes. “She knew I liked working at court and she doesn’t like when I’m happy.”

“So she made you quit? And you’ve been working at home with her since?” Sarah nodded jerkily. Harry didn’t even need to ask who had struck Sarah. She’d already told him plenty. “Where were you walking to?”

“Nowhere. I dunno,” Sarah muttered. “She yelled and told me to get out so I did. Figured I could find a friend in the capital and stay there for the night until she calmed down. I didn’t want to leave Joshua but — but she’s nice to him. She always feeds him and gives him goat milk. She won’t do him harm.”

Harry’s heart twisted. Sarah was so young and yet her whole life had been characterized by pain, suffering, and backbreaking labor. She lost her mother and never even spoke about her father, and she lived with a family member that tried to rob her of her dignity and self-worth. It made Harry blindingly angry. Harry’s family wasn’t perfect, and their struggles were of a far different sort, but Harry could honestly assert that his parents had always done well by he and Gemma. It was hard for Gemma knowing that she could never grow up to be the ruler of Holmes, but she had an excellent support system to process through those feelings of confusion and grief. She had an excellent tutor and friends all over the kingdom. And then she was gone, whisked away to a land of wealth and security. Harry hadn’t heard from her in so long. 

Harry wanted to whisk Sarah away, too. He always had, doing what he could to bestow the girl with compliments and a slightly simpler life. It had felt like the least he could do.

But now Harry was feeling as though he could do more. Like he _should_. 

“Where does your aunt live?” Harry asked.

Kevin stepped forward, his face wary. “Your Highness — ”

“I just want to speak with the woman,” Harry interrupted. “Nothing more. Nothing to worry your pretty little head about, Kevin.”

Kevin hummed but he did not sound very convinced. Perhaps he knew Harry too well. “I don’t think we have enough of a detail to venture into the villages. The people can be very uncouth, especially when confronted with a royal — ”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Harry replied, waving his hand dismissively. “Won’t we, Sarah?”

“Nobody will bother the Prince Consort,” Sarah answered. “They all think his mother was a witch, so they wouldn’t dare.”

Harry turned to Sarah, his mouth twisted in confusion. “Wait. What? Where in the world did they get that idea?”

“From me,” Sarah replied, smiling smugly. The mischief that had so reminded Harry of Gemma upon their first encounter was finally making a reappearance. “Everyone was being mean to me. I told them that I knew Prince Harry and that I knew his mother was a witch, so they shouldn’t dare mock my clothes anymore.”

Harry continued to stare at Sarah in disbelief, but Kevin guffawed out a laugh so loud it startled their horses. Harry glared at him, but Kevin only grinned sheepishly. “I always liked this girl,” Kevin explained. “She’s bold.”

“Well that settles it,” Harry said, standing up to his full height and thrusting his hand out for Sarah to clasp. “We’re going to pay Sarah’s aunt a visit.”

Sarah looked up at Harry. Harry had always thought her eyes were a dark brown, but in this light they shone bright and hazel, almost the same warm shade as Zayn’s. How was it that one little girl could remind Harry of so many different loved ones?

“Are you sure, Your Highness?” she croaked. 

“Very much so.”

Sarah smiled, the press of her lips thin and uneven, but she took Harry’s hand in her own and gave it a hopeful squeeze nonetheless.

 

Kevin offered his horse to Sarah, but she admitted that she had never rode by herself before, so Harry brought the girl up to sit with him, holding her close so they could share the saddle. She smelled like dirt and Harry was sure she was sullying his robes, but Harry didn’t care. He could buy new robes — he could buy new clothes for the both of them because he was rich these days. So he just gripped his reins and followed the girl’s instructions, leading his mare off the main road and onto a smaller, windier path dotted with pear trees.

Jinan was full of noblemen and bankers, an upper class city dripping with ostentatious wealth. There was poverty, same as Harry witnessed in Holmes, but save for the market, aching destitution was primarily out of sight, out of mind. 

The villages outside of the capital were an entirely different matter.

The houses trailing from the dirt path were little more than huts, ramshackle constructions made from pear tree bark. There was garbage in the roads, and barefoot children ran through the filth without a care in the world. Women were watching Harry with sharp, suspicious eyes, and cradling wailing babies in their arms. Harry did not see many young men as they were presumably tending to the pear trees or out hawking their wares in the city, but the ones Harry could make out were wiry and dark, with ink searing their skin.

“Countrymen of King Yaser,” Kevin explained from where he was galloping next to Harry. “They originally arrived in the kingdom around the same time as the royal wedding. King Yaser’s people are seamen by trade — fishers, whalers, and the like — and they were told that there was great wealth and opportunity here in these lands. But the Healys and the other local noblemen pushed them from the coast when they first arrived, so they settled outside of Jinan to be close to the King.”

Harry blinked. “Professor Sheeran did not ever mention this in all of his lessons,” he said. Harry knew that many of King Yaser’s countrymen and kinfolk had accompanied him when he moved to Jinan, but the history lessons had made it seem like all of those families were noblemen who had been accepted at court or incorporated into the mercantile class inside of the capital’s high walls. 

“There are many things Professor Sheeran has not mentioned,” Kevin remarked mildly. “I noticed when I accompanied you for those lessons. But those are not pieces of our kingdom’s history that people choose to highlight.”

“I suppose not.”

“My mother lived in this bush,” Kevin continued. “That is how I know the old stories. My mother was a distant relative of the King and a woman of little coin. She did her best.”

“And your father?” Harry pressed. “Do you know much of him?”

Kevin lifted a shoulder. “My mother said he was a soldier, but I never met him. I assume he came from the north.”

“How did you end up working at court?”

“My mother waited on line in order to seek an audience with the King,” Kevin answered. “I was a boy of ten at the time. She appealed to the King’s kind nature and benevolence, asking that he find a place for me at court. And King Yaser did, bless the gods. I have hardly been to this bush since. My mother now lives in a small apartment in the city.”

Harry hummed, taking in the abject distress all around him. He couldn’t understand how someone related to the King once lived in such squalid conditions. It seemed shameful. 

But then Harry remembered all of his countrymen, their stories of hardship as they poured out of Holmes in search of a better life. History seemed to be repeating itself in the most disgraceful way. 

Sarah’s hut was almost indistinguishable from all of the others. There was a donkey tied up to a small post and a few chickens clucking around in a small caged patch of dirt, but there was the same mound of garbage beside the house as all the others, and Harry could make out a baby’s cries from inside the tiny building. Kevin leapt from his horse and tied it to the post and Harry guided his horse over as well, nudging Sarah to accept Kevin’s hand so they could both alight.

“The house is filthy, Your Highness,” Sarah mumbled, tugging at the hem of her dress. “I don’t want you to go in there. I — it’s not the type of place for a Prince to visit.”

“Then can you summon your aunt for me?” Harry asked. “And tell her to bring out the baby, too.”

Sarah nodded, exhaling long and deep. She tossed her shoulders back, her curls whipping about her face and briefly disguising the bruise on her cheek. She took a step toward the house, but Kevin grabbed her shoulder before she could properly make her way inside.

“Perhaps I should accompany the young girl?” Kevin suggested, turning to Harry. “Lest the woman prove to be hasty in her anger?”

Harry nodded. “Yes. Yes — that sounds good.”

Harry waited while Kevin and Sarah made their way into the hut. Harry looked about himself idly as he stalled. Villagers were watching him, in that careful, searching way of people pretending to be otherwise occupied. Harry smiled at some children who came bounding by the donkey, laughing when the youth attempted to hide behind the old animal.

A creak from the porch alerted Harry to the others’ arrival. Harry’s first thought was that Sarah’s aunt rather favored Lady Swift. She was a thin blonde woman, with harsh lips and cold, grey eyes. She was wearing a petticoat and heeled shoes, something that most of the villagers seemed to do without. She looked nothing like most of her neighbors, actually, who were lean with dark skin and curly hair. 

Inside the hut, a child continued to sob.

“Your Highness,” the woman said, sinking into a deep bow. “I — to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Please, rise,” Harry replied. The woman did so, albeit unsteadily, grasping the folds of her skirt. She seemed drunk, reeking of rum and looking at Harry through unfocused, bloodshot eyes. Harry honed in on her bony hands. Her skin was pale, white as the snow that coated Holmes, but her knuckles were bruised a deep purplish-green, the same color as the swelling on Sarah’s face. 

Harry felt another wave of anger overcome him, quick as a riptide. It took everything in Harry’s power to keep his voice even, to do his best to act like a true Prince deserving of his title and privilege.

“I have missed your niece at court,” Harry said, quirking his lips in the attempt of a smile. “She is one of my favorite faces but I’ve been so busy. I hardly realized that she was gone. Not until I encountered her on the roads today.”

The woman’s face flashed through a myriad of emotions — confusion and anger appearing to be the two dominant sensations — before settling on something akin to annoyance. 

“The young girl was squandering away her earnings,” the aunt explained. “Her uncle died, rest his soul, and there is plenty of work closer to home. She will have less opportunity to trifle away her money if she is not walking the roads at night.”

“That is understandable,” Harry said. He could still hear a baby wailing, but the cries were thinner, more hiccuping. Harry desperately wanted to dart inside and console the child, balance the baby on his hip and coo, and based on Sarah’s pained, longing expression, she did, too. “But she is such an asset at court — such an asset to my own personal service. I beg you to reconsider your decision and let her return to court.”

The aunt pursed her lips and shook her head. She reached forward to grab Sarah and Harry could see how the woman dug her fingers, hard, into the girl’s collarbone. Sarah winced but sucked her bottom lip into her mouth to keep a gasp from escaping. “I have been so lonely without the children’s uncle,” the aunt said. Her tone was low and simpering. “And court is no place for a young, simpleminded village girl.”

“Court cannot possibly be worse than working in the farms,” Kevin said. Both Harry and the aunt turned to him in surprise. “There was a time when there was no greater honor than earning employment at court.”

The aunt’s lip lifted in a sneer. “And you are — ?”

“Old Habiba’s grandson and the Prince Consort’s personal guard,” Kevin replied shortly. The aunt’s expression went carefully blank and Kevin appeared to just barely hold back a smirk. Clearly Kevin’s grandmother’s name meant something to the villagers here.

“There is still much honor serving King Yaser and his family,” the aunt replied haughtily. “As you well know. But I want the girl here.”

“To continue striking her?” Harry asked. “Or so you can live off of her earnings and presumably the future benevolence of her brother?”

The aunt gaped at Harry. She looked rather like a fish and it made Harry smile. 

Harry turned to look around at the other villagers. They were no longer maintaining the illusion of pretending to be busy, but were instead watching the exchange with wide, eager eyes. Harry wondered how many of them knew the depravity of this woman and chose to ignore her cruelty.

“I have never raised a hand — ”

“The Prince Consort is not a simpleton,” Kevin interrupted. “I would request that you do not insult his intelligence.”

The aunt continued to grimace. “The girl is a swine. A bastard orphan — ”

“There are worse things to be than a bastard or an orphan,” Harry interrupted. “Like an old woman gone to ruin who takes her aggression on the world out on children.”

“You dare to judge me?” the woman squawked. She drew herself up to her full height, her body quaking with indignation. Inside, the baby continued to cry. Harry exchanged a glance with Kevin and the man seemed to sense exactly what Harry was thinking, darting inside of the hut without another word. “You, an outlander and little more than a strumpet. We all know the rumors about you. How you were easy for it back in that frozen wasteland and would be able to settle your family’s bankruptcy with the power of your mouth — ”

“You’re certainly putting a great deal of esteem into my abilities,” Harry remarked lightly, sighing internally when Kevin returned from the house with a baby clutched in his arms. Thankfully, the child had ceased wailing, and was instead knocking his fists against Kevin’s chest. “I don’t think that’s an entirely accurate recounting of events, but I do appreciate your creativity.”

“I do think we should get going, Your Highness,” Kevin said, rearranging the baby in his arms so that the child was resting against his hip. “We do not want to miss dinner.”

The aunt continued to scowl but Sarah’s eyes went wide and watery with the threat of tears. “No, no, no,” Sarah moaned. “Your Highness, please — ”

“Oh, we’re not leaving you,” Harry said. “You are returning to court with Kevin and I.”

“What?” the woman squawked. “You cannot just _take_ the child — ”

Harry lifted a shoulder and smiled his largest, most blustering grin. “Yes I can. I’m the Prince Consort — by definition I can do whatever I want, particularly when it is in the benefit of a child’s safety. Sarah, Kevin, come.”

Sarah tore herself from her aunt’s grasp and bounded toward Harry, burying her face against his ribs. Kevin made his way more slowly down the steps, juggling the baby and untying the horses from the post one-handed.

“I can take the baby and walk with him,” Sarah babbled. “I’ll earn my keep. I’ll clean out the stables and keep out of the other servants’ way. I’ll — ”

“Start by getting on the horse, please,” Harry said. “Hop up in the saddle. We’ll get your own mare soon enough.”

“Mare?” the aunt yawped. “The girl does not deserve a _mare_ — ”

“What part of ‘I’m the Prince Consort, I do whatever I want’ is so difficult to understand?” Harry huffed. “My gods. _Shut up_.”

And the woman did just that, falling silent and watching forlornly as Harry helped Sarah onto his mare. Kevin offered his own horse to Harry but he shook his head, instead gesturing for the baby in Kevin’s arms.

“Let me hold the boy.”

“Joshua,” Sarah supplied. “His name is Joshua.”

“Let me hold Joshua,” Harry corrected. “I would like to walk back to the capital.”

The baby was far cleaner than Sarah and dressed in somewhat nicer clothes. He had fairer skin and lighter colored hair than his sister, a blonde that would probably darken and curl with the passage of time. But when the boy turned his head and blinked at Harry, his eyes were a beautiful amber. 

Harry had only wanted to take the children away from their horrific keeper. He wanted to send a message to that woman — and throughout the villages, really, as the story inevitably traveled — about what sort of behavior was condoned by the Prince Consort and what wasn’t. But as Harry looked into baby Joshua’s eyes, he could feel his plans morph and change. Harry couldn’t understand it, but a love and protectiveness he didn’t even know he was capable of feeling began to surge inside of him.

Harry, Kevin, Sarah, and Joshua began their slow trek back to the capital. Harry ignored the speculative eyes of the villagers and their whispers. Harry ignored how Sarah’s aunt said her countrymen had been talking about him, gossiping that he was a whore of little value to the royal family. Harry ignored everything but the baby in his arms with the same hazel eyes as his husband.

They were a few yards outside of Jinan’s gates when Harry pulled off his robe and swaddled the child in the fabric. Harry pushed the boy’s hair out of his eyes, his heart melting when the baby grinned at him and grabbed his pointer finger, only four teeth glittering in his mouth.

 

They returned to the castle a little after nightfall. Sarah was exhausted, just barely keeping herself upright in the saddle. Kevin helped her down from the horse and offered to take her to the servants’ quarters so she could bathe and find clean clothes, but Harry shook his head, instead instructing Kevin to take the horses down to the stable.

“And bring Tessa to my rooms as well,” Harry said. “I will guarantee the children are bathed myself.”

If Kevin thought the request was strange, he didn’t remark on it. Instead, he asked, “And what shall I tell Prince Zayn?”

“Tell him that I apologize for missing dinner,” Harry replied. “But if you can ask Queen Trisha — ”

“She will most undoubtedly make time for you, Your Highness,” Kevin interrupted. “Especially since you missed tonight’s meal.”

Harry nodded, rearranging the baby in his arms so he could clap Kevin’s shoulder, hoping his gratitude could be felt from the singular gesture. “Thank you, Kevin. You — you are a true friend.”

Kevin’s cheeks went scarlet. He ducked his head, his dark hair flopping into his eyes. “It is my honor and duty, Your Highness.”

And then Kevin took the reigns of both horses into his hand, leading them around the castle to the stable.

Harry took the servants’ entrance, walking winding staircases to his rooms and desperately hoping that he would not encounter any noblemen along the journey. Luckily the gods were on Harry’s side and he was able to lead Joshua and Sarah to his rooms without any incident. 

A few girls were waiting for him when he arrived, but Harry requested that they tend to the two children instead of him. The servants exchanged confused expressions but did as they were instructed, hastily drawing a bath for the children to share and thankfully leaving Harry alone. He undressed — slowly, his body finally recognizing the long journey he had undertaken — and sat silently with his own thoughts.

He had taken two children from their home today and he didn’t regret it. He didn’t feel bad for embarrassing an old, sad, drunk woman in front of her village. He didn’t regret using his title to do something brash and impulsive.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do moving forward, but he liked Sarah. He knew they could find something for her to do around court, and even if they didn’t, Harry could toss her some money and make her a Marchioness or something. He could ask someone to train her, to teach her how to play the piano and do needlework and learn how to manipulate people around her to enact her will, just like a real Lady.

And for Joshua, for the baby — well. Harry wanted an heir. Harry wanted a son. And this baby had blonde hair like Harry did as a child and hazel eyes as shining and beautiful as Zayn’s. This baby smiled at Harry with a gummy mouth and didn’t even seem concerned that he wasn’t with his aunt, content to splash in his bath and cling to Harry. Joshua was young, wouldn’t even be able to remember the cruelty of that woman or the poverty of his previous existence. Harry knew that Zayn didn’t seem too concerned about finding a son yet, but if Harry were a girl, it would’ve been an entirely different matter. If Harry were a girl, they would expect him to be with child already.

It felt like fate. And who was Harry to kick the gods in the mouth? He was already familiar with both children and they were countrymen of Zayn’s — countrymen of King Yaser’s, maybe even kin. They resembled Zayn, were handsome children, and young enough that Harry could mold them into whoever they needed to be.

Harry just needed Queen Trisha on his side. And for the children to have nice clothes. Harry’s potential heirs would be nothing but well-dressed.

 

Queen Trisha, to her credit, was gobsmacked.

It was well after dinner and late into the evening. Harry requested to see Queen Trisha for tea and she readily obliged. Harry waited for the servants to draw another bath, this time for himself, and sent Kevin into town to procure clothes for the two children. It was somewhat of a stupid assignment, but Kevin, godsend that he was, returned with fine robes from Harry’s favorite designer before Harry was even finished shampooing his hair.

So Harry brought Joshua and Sarah to Queen Trisha’s rooms, balancing the baby boy on his hip. Sarah was remarkably pretty without a layer of dirt smudging her skin, her curls assembled into a smooth plait. And Joshua smelled of lavender, his chubby body feeling remarkably natural against Harry’s skin. 

Harry took a seat at Queen Trisha’s tea table, sitting Joshua in his lap, and directed Sarah to stand behind him. Together, they waited for Queen Trisha to arrive. When she did, she nearly went faint at Harry’s explanation for the presence of two strange youth.

“Can you repeat how you found the children again?” Queen Trisha asked weakly. 

“I encountered Sarah multiple times working here at court,” Harry replied. “I had taken a liking to her, and when I realized she was being mistreated, I knew I had to do something.”

“And you not only decided to take her from her aunt’s care, but also provide patronage?” Queen Trisha sighed. “Oh, dear.”

“I hardly see what the big deal is,” Harry said. “I have the coin and I like the children. They already look quite smart, don't they?”

“Children are not pets.”

Harry barely resisted the urge to pout at the Queen. “I am aware, Your Highness.”

“I do not think you thought this decision through. I do not want you to coddle these children, treating them as a project, only to get bored in a few weeks’ time. You cannot return babies. You cannot shuttle them away in the stable, summoning for them whenever you wish to play with them.” Queen Trisha’s voice was gentle but condescending. “We can hide them at court for the time being — ”

“Hide them?” Harry yelped, clutching Joshua tight against his chest. The baby whimpered, yanking at one of the cords hanging from Harry’s robes, and Harry murmured a consolation in his mother tongue, bouncing the baby in his seat. But even as he tried to appear calm for Joshua’s sake, Harry had to fight against his own annoyance. What was wrong with everyone in this godforsaken kingdom? What was with this royal family’s insistence on mystery and seclusion? Did they not see the awful mental impact such reticence had on the rest of court? “We — we cannot _hide_ Joshua and Sarah. They’re children in my charge, not some sordid secret to tiptoe around.”

“Harry — ”

“Just because you hid Louis for years does not mean that I am ashamed of what I have done,” Harry spat. 

The Queen blanched immediately, her fingers fluttering against her chest, and Harry’s face went completely scarlet the very second he realized what he had said. He had raised his voice and chastised his mother-in-law. His mother-in-law the Queen, no less. Had Harry lost his mind and all sense of decorum? What could possibly be gained by insulting a woman who had been on his side for the past ten months? 

Harry dropped his gaze as embarrassment pooled through his extremities, murmuring, “I apologize, Your Highness. It was never my intention to be insolent — ”

The Queen sighed, rubbing her temples, and slumped against her chair. She still seemed rather pale, but she waved at Harry, shaking her head dismissively. “It — it’s quite all right, Harry. It’s a valid point. I certainly made an error attempting to distance myself from my illegitimate son, and I do not wish to inflict the same anguish upon you, Prince Zayn, or these children.” 

The Queen gestured for Harry to come forward, and Harry obliged, rising from his seat, Joshua still in his arms. He hovered awkwardly at her side while the Queen regarded him and the baby carefully. Harry was extremely surprised when The Queen leaned forward, plucking Joshua out of his arms and cooing at the boy.

For his part, Joshua did not seem entirely thrilled to be away from Harry. He made a small grunt that sounded like the beginning of a cry and turned toward Harry with a trembling bottom lip and chubby grabby hands. The Queen quirked an eyebrow at Harry before depositing the baby back in Harry’s arms. Joshua immediately buried his face into Harry’s chest, regaining a hold on the cords dangling from Harry’s robes and jerking the fabric.

“Have you met both these children before?” The Queen asked. “The boy seems quite fond of you.”

“I’ve only ever seen this little boy once before. Today was the first time I’ve held him.”

The Queen hummed contemplatively. “He likes you. Trusts you. And the boy favors Zayn — the resemblance is almost uncanny, minus the hair. One could almost believe they were of the same blood.”

Harry nodded, bringing his hand to Joshua’s back and cradling the boy even closer. Harry had briefly entertained similar thoughts during the walk back to the castle, as he smoothed his fingers through Joshua’s hair and made silly faces to keep the baby entertained. The more time the boy spent in the castle, the more time he spent with Harry and Zayn, the more he would pick up their mannerisms. Harry had no doubts about it — he could make this baby Zayn’s son. _Their_ son. Harry just needed The Queen’s help to convince Zayn and King Yaser that it was a good idea.

“You have certainly done everything in your power to have a most unconventional stay at court,” Queen Trisha remarked.

Harry frowned. “Not everything in my power. Almost all of the challenges I have encountered here have been outside of my control.”

“Except for this one.”

Harry tilted his head, acknowledging the point. “Except for this one. I made this choice on my own, and I will admit that I made it most rashly. And it will be a challenge, but you know how much I wanted an heir.”

Queen Trisha smiled, her eyes going soft where they lingered over Joshua. “I do know. And I think it can give you a sense of purpose to care for these children. But you must know how this will look to the rest of court. As though you were motivated by desperation — the Prince Consort so determined to force a place for himself that he adopted street urchins — ”

“They’re not street urchins,” Harry growled. “Is this entire court so obsessed with class and rank? So unwilling to see beyond — ”

“ _Harry_ ,” Queen Trisha interrupted. Harry immediately fell silent, wincing when Joshua grabbed a tiny fistful of Harry’s hair and yanked it. “I did not say that I personally believe these children to be street urchins. I do not believe that they are undeserving of your love or of the Malik family name. You remember the story I told you about my grandfather, the orphan adopted by Prince Faiz and his lover. And you know that my husband, the King, is not of these lands, either. It seems almost fitting to me that your and Zayn’s heir comes from a similar background. My family has always been most inclusive and understanding. But you must understand that there will be some at this court who are not as empathetic.”

Harry answered insistently, “I don’t care about them. I only care about King Yaser and Prince Zayn — what they think. The Malik family’s approval is the only thing I need.”

“King Yaser will support you,” Queen Trisha replied confidently, almost haughtily. “Like I, he was disappointed in Princess Doniya’s decision to forego children for the time being. And he has been worried about your role here at court. He understands what it is like to be an outlander — a perceived interloper. I assume he will applaud your ingenuity for adopting a child from the villages.”

“And Zayn?”

The Queen fell silent. When she spoke again, her words were soft and lilting. “The Prince is your husband. What do _you_ think?”

Harry bit down on his bottom lip and regained the seat across from Queen Trisha. Harry settled Joshua on his lap again, handing the baby little scraps of food for him to gum on. 

“I think he will be upset that I undertook such a large decision without consulting him,” Harry said slowly. “We have had this conversation before. I’ve told him how much it hurts me when he does not inform me of his plans.”

“And?” Queen Trisha nudged. “Beyond that?”

Joshua banged his fists against the table and Harry frowned at him, pulling the boy away from the edge. “I haven’t gotten beyond that. That’s why I need your help.”

Queen Trisha exhaled a long breath. She looked over at Sarah, taking in her neat plaits and the clean folds of her brand new dress, the sickly bruise underneath her eye. And then the Queen’s eyes settled on Joshua, the baby boy that Harry was impulsively — and perhaps stupidly — placing all of his hopes in. But that was what being a parent was all about.

“I will help you,” Queen Trisha vowed. “Let us devise a plan.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually started reading Game of Thrones and watched approximately half an episode during a Virgin Atlantic flight.


	18. Part Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Kindness was a frequent precursor to betrayal. It was in Harry’s best interests to remember that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Sasha](http://playincards.tumblr.com/) for [this chapter's artwork](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/post/138152745926/chase-the-devil-part-seventeen-kindness-was-a) and for being so amazing and helpful while I remain the absolute worst. And thank you as well to all of my betas and to all of you for still reading!

The wonderful thing about the grand palace Mishael was that it was exceptionally large. Certainly the largest castle Harry had ever lived in. There were countless rooms and hideaways, untold numbers of hallways and tunnels. Plenty of nooks and crannies where Harry could stash away children if he so chose.

Harry and Queen Trisha spoke for hours before she was able to convince Harry that it might be best to keep Joshua and Sarah in a separate part of the castle for the time being. She had to explain to him repeatedly that this was just a temporary measure, and that she did not intend to stow the children away forever like she had done when she gave Louis away. This did not mean that Harry felt any less uneasy about it, because he did truly detest the idea, but he could admit that keeping the truth of the children’s existence away from Zayn for a few days would provide Harry with enough time to execute his own plans. It afforded Harry enough time to guarantee that whether Zayn liked it or not, these children were theirs.

And with Queen Trisha on his side, Harry could hope to make great strides. She encouraged Harry to go speak with his accountant and gave him gold coins to hire new bodyguards to watch over the children. She also promised to get in touch with her favorite seamstress to make the youths new clothing. Harry pressed a few coins of his own into Kevin’s hand and asked the soldier to find toys and books first thing in the morning. Kevin, exhausted but seemingly pleased with the assignment, bowed and promised to do as Harry requested. Harry dismissed him for the night and wondered if he could talk to the Queen about a knighthood for the soldier sometime in the future.

Consequently, Harry did not return to his own rooms until late. Zayn was still awake, standing shirtless in only his breeches, a goblet of wine in hand and all of the lanterns in his study still lit. He was standing over a massive map, one that occupied the entire length of his desk and was peeling with age. It managed to smell both dusty and moldy.

Harry approached Zayn and notched his chin over his husband’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around Zayn’s waist. Harry peered at the map and inhaled sharply when he realized what it was. A map of the old kingdoms and their divisions, in the day of the noble houses Lannisters, Stark, Targaryen, and Baratheon. Harry hadn’t seen such a map in a very long time. There had always been a part of Harry that figured all of the stories from that time were just nightmares told to keep children in line, at least until Zayn had taken him to an old house and shown him a throne forged in dragon fire.

“Why are you looking at this?” Harry asked, pressing his mouth against Zayn’s shoulder and tasting the sweat that clung to his skin.

“Something Matty said today,” Zayn replied, shaking his head as though he was recalling the conversation. “Something about how that newly-fashioned Emperor in Holmes has been parading himself as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Ridiculous, of course, considering I have it sitting in the hills. But it made me curious. I’ve heard all of the old tales but I never really knew how everything fit together.”

Harry hated thinking about that ghastly chair. People had driven themselves mad lusting after it. And for what? The luxury of sitting and having their hands torn open? 

“The world was certainly smaller then,” Harry remarked instead, concentrating on the ancient map in front of him. Harry couldn’t believe there had once been a time when people thought the world was only Westeros, Essos, and Sothoryos. The Known World must have seemed so peculiar and limited. Although that was probably only Harry’s modern perspective talking. Harry’s family emerged from the ruins of the Seven Kingdoms, but King Yaser came from a warring sea nation previously unknown to the people of Westeros. Zayn himself could certainly be thought of as a blend of the worlds old and new, although Harry couldn't remember if Queen Trisha’s side of the family claimed lineage to any of the old, noble houses. He should probably brush up on his royal genealogy. 

Zayn hummed and took a sip of his goblet before offering it to Harry, who unwrapped himself from Zayn’s middle long enough to take a long gulp. “Where were you today?” Zayn asked while Harry drank. “I asked after you, but neither Nick nor Niall knew where you had gone.”

“I took my mares riding with Kevin,” Harry answered, returning the goblet to Zayn.

“Riding? Where?”

“The villages outside the capital,” Harry said. “I can’t pronounce the name.”

Zayn twisted around to peer at Harry. “Why would you ride _there_?”

“I wanted to,” Harry answered simply. No point telling Zayn more than what he needed to know at the moment. “What? Am I not allowed to venture outside of Jinan?”

“No,” Zayn replied sullenly. “I just don’t understand why you would want to. Those villages are an exceptionally depressing eyesore.”

“That’s not a particularly nice thing to say about your own people.”

Zayn sighed. “You know what I mean. I’ve asked if we could do something — give the people loans to build houses, I don’t know — but everyone else seems content to let the people live in squalor. It’s a disgrace.”

Harry could not — and did not — disagree. The condition outside of Jinan’s walls had certainly taken him by surprise. The poverty was all-consuming, aching even. Harry thought back to the naked, barefoot children and the dark eyes of the villagers. Dark, searching, suspicious.

“Kevin said the villagers that live there are your father’s people,” Harry said. “The King’s countrymen.”

Zayn finished his wine and handed the goblet to Harry while he carefully rolled up the map again. “This is true,” Zayn said. “My parent’s betrothal was an exceptionally extravagant affair. It was in the middle of that stupid war with your parents and my grandfather knew that my father, despite not being the heir to his own throne, came with ships and soldiers. Ships and soldiers that could be committed to the war effort, obviously. There were days of feasts and my father’s people were promised settlements along the coast where they could fish and boat to their heart’s content. But the Healy family lorded over that territory and they forced the new immigrants out.”

“The Healys.” It was what Kevin had said, too, but for whatever reason Harry hadn’t accepted it as fact. “How could your father let that happen?”

“He was the Prince Consort — he felt, as I’m sure you have, that he didn’t have much of a say in this kingdom’s rule,” Zayn replied, stuffing down the ends of the map and wrapping the middle with a bit of twine. He laid the map back on his desk and took the wine goblet from Harry in order to set it on the table as well. “But after my grandfather died and my father became king, he did his best to make amends. He brought his countrymen here to the capital and found many of them jobs tending to the farms and vineyards. And he brought the Healys in line. My father understood that conquering all of the territories here at home would be the secret to defeating your father in Holmes.”

Harry nodded. He still did not know King Yaser particularly well and assumed their relationship would always be relatively strained, but Harry could never deny that King Yaser was a skillful tactician and warrior. What Harry could not understand, but would never give voice to, was why King Yaser insisted upon giving up the throne when there were so many threats lurking both within the kingdom and outside of it. 

“But you went riding today and now you’re back well after midnight,” Zayn continued. “Why did you return so late?”

“I went to visit your mother,” Harry said, turning and walking through their quarters to their main bedroom. It was easier to lie to Zayn if he was in motion, not focusing on his face. “I haven’t spent much time with her since we’ve returned from the coast.”

Zayn followed Harry through the rooms and pulled off his breeches before taking his side of the bed in the nude. For not the first time, Harry found himself drawn to the tattoos marking Zayn’s flesh. Harry could hardly tell whether he just liked the marks as they looked on Zayn’s skin, or if he wanted the ink for himself. It was certainly something to think about.

“You’re a better son than me,” Zayn remarked. “I’ve not seen her at all since we returned.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“Busy,” Zayn scoffed. “Sitting in endless meetings, having endless discussions. And I’m not even on the High Council! I don’t know how my father does it.”

Harry undressed slowly, reveling in Zayn’s hungry look as he did so. “Does your father actually sit in on all of the High Council meetings, though? I thought he spent most of his time with the knights and dignitaries.”

Zayn huffed out a breath. “He listens to the grievances of his subjects in the morning. Then he takes a meal and meets with whoever he needs to in the afternoon. But yes, lately it does seem as though most of his time has been preoccupied with talks of war and conflict.”

Hearing Zayn admit that the kingdom was in turmoil almost made Harry fearful, but then he remembered the dragons growing along the coast and the direwolf that lurked the castle grounds. Zayn had armies at his command and more gold than he knew what to do with. Safety in itself was an illusion, but Harry had confidence in the securities Zayn had placed around them. No one would get to them without a fight. 

And no one would get to their children, either.

Harry turned back to his husband and crawled along the length of the bed, tossing a leg over Zayn’s lap and straddling him. Zayn brought his hands to rest on Harry’s hips and Harry grinned, letting his hair fall into his eyes. 

“I think you are going to be a tremendous king when the time comes, you know,” Harry said. “You’re already such an amazing husband, and you’ll be the most honorable king, an exceptional father — ”

“Hush, you,” Zayn whispered, surging up to cup Harry’s head and kiss him.

 

The next morning, Harry awoke before dawn. He left his husband flushed and well-fucked, took a bath, dressed, went to visit the two children, and then made his way to the other side of the castle. It took him a fair bit of wandering to find the correct quarters, unfamiliar as he was with this particular wing, but when he did, Harry knocked and waited patiently. 

And to her credit, Eleanor Calder seemed very surprised to see Harry standing on the other side of her door.

“Your Highness,” she murmured with a small curtsy. “For what reason do I owe this pleasure?”

“I was hoping to speak to you before breakfast this morning,” Harry replied. “Can I come inside?”

“Of course, Your Highness,” she murmured, pulling her door back further to allow Harry entry.

Eleanor’s room was on the opposite side of the castle as Taylor’s, but in many ways their quarters were quite similar. Taylor’s old room overlooked the city in all of its gleaming, sprawling glory, but Eleanor’s faced the gardens, with views of the lush forests beyond the city walls. She had a wide bed in the middle of the room, as well as a large dresser with gold claws and a modest wooden desk. Also, propped up in one corner, was an elegantly crafted violin and its bow.

“I did not know you played the violin,” Harry said, sitting himself at Eleanor’s desk.

“I would chance to say there are plenty of things you do not know about me, Your Highness,” Eleanor quipped. “I apologize that I do not have a tea table or any food for you. If I had known I would be entertaining, we could have met in my betrothed’s quarters, as they are closer to the kitchens and larger.”

Harry frowned at Eleanor, who blushed for some strange reason. “You do realize that we’re alone. There’s no need to maintain that pretense.”

“You never know who is listening, Your Highness,” Eleanor said. “This castle is full of spies.”

“Spies?” Harry repeated. “Spies for who?”

“Spies for my betrothed,” Eleanor replied. “Spies for the newly married Duke and Duchess Healy. Spies for the crown — for our Prince. Did you really not know this?”

Harry chewed at his bottom lip and lifted his shoulders. Of course there were ears all over the castle. It was the same back in Holmes. Taylor said the only currency of importance at court were secrets. And hadn’t Liam, Nick, and Niall said as much, once, too, insinuating that Kevin’s entire job here in Jinan was to spy on Harry? “ _It's a common tactic at any court_ ,” Liam had said.

“Is Kevin a spy?” Harry asked suddenly. “The soldier I picked as my bodyguard?”

Eleanor suddenly appeared very uneasy. She fidgeted with her hands and laughed nervously. “I would have no knowledge of that, Your Highness. But it would not surprise me if he was. And if that’s the case, you can always win spies over to your side. You just need to provide them with a better incentive.”

“Bribe them with coin, you mean,” Harry said.

“Or with a title,” Eleanor rejoined. “How do you think it is I managed to remain so far apart from court gossip, particularly with Tomlinson as my betrothed? My family is not the wealthiest, Your Highness. But we are an old house, and titles and honors — those are easy to provide, particularly for someone who does not know better.”

Suddenly Harry’s passing thought that Kevin was deserving of a knighthood seemed all the more appealing. “Thank you for your advice, my Lady.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Eleanor said. “But I take it you did not come to me to talk titles and spies.”

Harry shook his head and sighed. All of this had seemed so easy and straightforward the night before, with Queen Trisha sitting across from him and listing everything that he would need to do over the next fortnight. Pretend as though nothing had happened. Do as he normally did. Fuck Zayn and provide him with affection. Visit the children. Find someone he trusted and ask them for help.

Harry wasn’t sure if he trusted Eleanor, but he trusted her motivations. He trusted her quiet drive and her ambition. He trusted that she was loyal to the crown — to Queen Trisha and King Yaser, if nothing else. And Harry trusted that he could manipulate her to do his bidding, too, if it had to come to that.

“I have done a stupid, reckless thing,” Harry said with a wry smile. “I found myself two children and I have received the Queen’s permission to raise them. Whether Zayn chooses to recognize them as his heirs or not is something else entirely, but either way, I want you to tutor them.”

Eleanor stared at Harry with wide, unblinking brown eyes. “You’ve adopted children?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

“And the Queen just — ”

“She wants heirs,” Harry interrupted. “In this time of great uncertainty, and following years of war, she wants grandsons and granddaughters. Who am I to deprive the Queen of what she desires?”

“But you did not do this for the Queen’s benefit,” Eleanor said. “You did it for your own.”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest. He was suddenly very annoyed and he did not need Eleanor Calder of all people judging his intentions. “Don’t tell me that you’ve been listening to all that drivel here at court.”

“It’s hard not to listen when everyone is repeating the same tall tale,” Eleanor replied calmly. “But do you understand what people will be saying about you? That you’ve somehow managed to trick the Queen. That you are so sad and desperate — ”

“I don’t care,” Harry said. “They will call me a magician, they will cast all sorts of aspersions against my character. They will say I am sad and desperate no matter what I do. And what if I am — what if I am concerned about my position at court? Should I sit around anxiously while refugees bang against Jinan’s walls and Holmes’ usurper puts a bounty on my head, or should I take initiative and secure my status here? If I were a woman, they would expect me to be with child by now.”

Eleanor listened to Harry carefully, her lips pursed. When he finished, she nodded and sighed. “So you have found children. And you want me to tutor them when I can. Why me?”

“Because I trust that you will do a good job.”

Eleanor smiled, small and pretty. Once more she said, “I would chance to say there are plenty of things you do not know about me.”

“I trust that you want a good life,” Harry said. “I trust that you have been wondering who at court could possibly make for a good match should your betrothal to Louis fall through. And I trust that you would rather serve my children than return home a maiden, embarrassed and disgraced when Louis’ infidelities are suddenly revealed to the entire court.”

Eleanor stared at Harry, mouth agape, clearly shocked.

Harry smiled. He had her. He hadn’t wanted to go there, hadn’t wanted to threaten her, but Harry would stoop as low as he needed to to get his way. Fuck being polite about it. He was a father now, and parents did whatever they needed to do for their children. 

“Should we discuss how this will work, then?”

 

Harry could still remember the first time he journeyed through Jinan’s gates and made his way to the palace that he would call his home. The locals called it Mishael, and Harry thought it was a formidable structure. Tall, hulking, but still elegant, with high turrets and expansive grounds. Castles in Holmes weren’t as beautiful. There, the castles were functional and imposing, built from stone and hardened by sleet.

But Mishael was meant to inspire wonder, not fear. It was a demonstration of the kingdom’s wealth and power, as well as its generosity. So there were stained glass windows and mazes in the courtyard. There were stables, grounds for riding and shooting and hawking. There were rooms for feasts and entertainment, and seemingly endless corridors to explore. Harry had never thought he had reason to learn all of the castles’ secrets and nuances, but hiding children away had afforded him an unexpected opportunity. 

Sarah and Joshua’s temporary quarters were in the eastern wing, two floors above the kitchen, and a floor above the cook’s quarters. Harry had frowned at the location, mainly because it was not close to his and Zayn’s rooms, but Queen Trisha insisted that it would have to do considering the situation. 

The rooms were small but quaint. There was a modest bed for Sarah and a tinier cot for the baby, and Queen Trisha also found a large, oversized chaise for Harry to sit on whenever he was visiting. Kevin brought in toys and books to keep the children amused, but Harry quickly discovered that Sarah could not read. Consequently, Harry insisted that Eleanor Calder’s first order of business was to visit the girl each afternoon and teach her letters. 

Harry stole away to see the children whenever he could. Joshua and Sarah both seemed small for their ages, so Queen Trisha sent a healer to tend to them. Harry sat by anxiously, taking note of everything the healer recommended and requesting special meals from the kitchens. He bought them clothes and little leather boots, ribbons for Sarah’s hair, soft sheepskin blankets to swaddle Joshua in while he slept. He asked Eleanor to sing to them or play from her violin, and Harry daydreamed of all the entertainers he could bring to court for the children’s amusement. Fools and jesters, actors and renowned dancers. All of the things Harry read about in his books, but which Holmes was too poor to afford. Harry wanted his children to experience it all. 

But mostly Harry spent his time cradling Joshua to his chest and inhaling his soft, baby smell, that mix of skin, goats milk, and lavender, and grinning at Sarah as she marveled over the letters and words she was slowly learning day by day.

Harry was happy. He knew that he was living a lie and he knew that he was keeping a huge secret from Zayn. He knew that he was just biding his time until the world crashed at his feet yet again. But for a brief time Harry was deliriously pleased with himself and the fantasy he had created, and that was enough to see him through.

 

Harry had expected that Queen Trisha would eventually betray his confidence, or that one of Zayn’s spies would let him know that Harry was stealing away to spend untold hours in a new part of the castle, giving Zayn just enough information to make him paranoid and suspicious. 

What Harry was not expecting was for Zayn to go searching for Harry on his own one lazy afternoon, entirely unprovoked.

“Your Highness,” Kevin called. He had been standing guard outside of the children’s room, but he knocked swiftly and threw his head in long enough to grimace. “The Prince is here to see you. He would like to ride with you this afternoon.”

“Oh,” Harry said. Joshua was asleep against his chest, one thumb in his mouth, the other wrapped around a tassel dangling from Harry’s tunic. He looked so peaceful, like a little angel in the stained glass paintings Queen Anne would commission back in Holmes. Joshua hardly cried when Harry held him, something Sarah had been quick to remark on. And Sarah was taking a nap in her bed, too, her dark hair a sheet of black against her white sheets. She had been studying so hard all morning, and she had also recently taken to cleaning the room all by herself when Harry was away, organizing her books and assembling her dolls in a neat row on her bed. Harry didn’t want to disturb them. He didn’t want to leave them, either, even though a ride through the woods with his husband sounded very appealing. “Can you tell Prince Zayn that I will meet him later?”

Kevin ducked his head out of the room again and Harry heard what sounded like a very tense discussion. When Kevin returned, he was flustered and apologetic. “He’s quite insistent, Your Highness,” Kevin said. “If you would please — ”

“He’s my bloody husband, get out of the way, Kevin,” Harry heard Zayn command. And then there he was, bracing his arm against the doorframe and scoffing. His hair was sticking up in thick tufts like he’d been running his hands through it, and there were dark smudges under his eyes. He’d been sleeping fitfully for days, tossing and turning all night, even when Harry did his best to lull Zayn to sleep with his cock and mouth. He seemed far more exhausted than he had any reason to be, but he was smiling at Harry now.

“Well, isn’t he a cute one,” Zayn murmured, walking up to where Harry was still cradling a sleeping Joshua in his arms. Harry turned back toward the door, catching a glimpse of Kevin’s stricken face right before he shut the wood once more. Zayn came to stand behind Harry and ran a light finger along the edge of the blanket Harry had swaddled the baby in. He looked so soft and fond gazing at Joshua, and Harry realized that he had never seen Zayn holding a baby before. Harry thought his heart was going to burst right out of his chest. “Is this one of the servants’ children? Playing nanny while they work?”

“Not quite,” Harry answered. “Do you want to hold him?”

Zayn smirked, a fast quirk of his lips, and then he nodded. “Sure.”

Harry stood and walked around the edge of the chaise, transferring Joshua into Zayn’s arms and praying that the baby would not wake and start squalling. Thankfully, the little boy continued to sleep peacefully, making a happy, content noise as he cozied himself against Zayn’s chest.

It seemed like the more Harry looked at Joshua, the more he seemed to resemble Zayn. The same sloping nose. The same pink, puckered lips. And hazel eyes with long, curling eyelashes. Joshua’s hair was blonde, but judging by Sarah’s dark composition, Harry did not imagine that would last long. Harry knew he was right to take the boy in. Joshua was more a Malik than Harry would ever be. Harry just had to make Zayn see that.

This was a start, watching Zayn hold Joshua in his arms. Watching Zayn smile down at the fair-haired boy swaddled in Malik purple, and listening as Zayn began to hum low underneath his breath.

“Please tell me you’ll hear me out completely before you get upset,” Harry said.

Zayn turned to Harry with a frown. “What are you on about?”

“They’re not servant children,” Harry answered. “They’re from the villages. And they’re my wards for the time being, but I think they should be our heirs.”

Zayn blinked. His eyelashes fanned across his cheekbones and for a moment he was so achingly beautiful Harry almost forgot what they were talking about. But then Zayn’s eyes considered the child in his arms and his face went blank. He moved to thrust the boy back at Harry, but then he seemed to think better of it, making his way to the door and knocking against it with the toe of his boot.

“Zayn — ” Harry called, but Kevin had already thrown the door back.

“Please tend to these children while I converse with the Prince Consort,” Zayn instructed, transferring Joshua into Kevin’s arms. Naturally, the minute he did so, Joshua opened his eyes, his bottom lip trembling. Harry could only imagine how shrilly he was going to wail. His shrieks always woke Sarah, and she had only just started to truly sleep.

“Zayn — ”

“Kevin can take care of them,” Zayn said, already halfway out the door. “Come, Harry. Now.”

Harry looked at Kevin helplessly before following Zayn out of the room. 

 

Harry wasn’t sure where Zayn was going to take him. For a moment, he hoped that Zayn would lead him to Queen Trisha’s rooms, so that she could scold her son and show Zayn that Harry’s way was the right one. But instead, Zayn led him back to their personal quarters, opening the door and gesturing for Harry to go in first. Zayn sent one of the servants to fetch them wine, cheeses, and pears and they sat in silence until the girl returned. She left in a flurry of curtsies and a swirl of fabric, and then they were alone again.

Zayn assembled a plate for Harry and poured him a full cup of wine. He silently gestured for Harry to eat before taking a long swig directly from the wine bottle. And then he looked at Harry, his gaze hard and assessing. 

“I want you to explain to me what madness possessed you to warden village orphans,” Zayn instructed. “And then I want you to explain how you plan to find another ward for these children.”

“I’m not finding another ward for Joshua and Sarah,” Harry said. “That is not up for discussion. And it was no madness that possessed me to take them in, either.”

“Was it grief for your mother then?” Zayn pressed. “A longing for Holmes?”

Harry sputtered, “Neither! I told you many times that I wanted a son.”

“You’ve told me a lot of things,” Zayn said. “And for a long time I did not care to differentiate between the truths and half-truths.”

“I’ve never lied to you.”

Zayn scoffed. “How stupid do you take me for, Harry? Half-truths are a necessity in this world we live in. I know that you feel as though an heir brings security. I understand that completely. But this — what you have done — is something else entirely.”

“I have been nothing but honest with you, Zayn,” Harry insisted. “I’ve told you my intentions time and time again, and you’ve discounted them all out of hand.”

Zayn said, “Safety, confidence — those are easy things to provide, and I have done my best to make this kingdom whole again for you. But children are not toys. You cannot stash children away in the stables, or let them roam the grounds without supervision like you do with Tessa.”

Harry blinked, annoyed at the jibe about Tessa. She was a bloody direwolf. What was Harry supposed to do — put her on a leash? “Surprisingly enough, I know that there is a difference between children and toys.”

“Do you?” Zayn countered. “Are you quite sure? Because right now I cannot help but wonder what exactly is going on in that pretty head of yours.”

It took everything in Harry’s power not to recoil. “I’m not stupid or vapid or whatever it is you’re accusing me of this month,” Harry snarled. “I thought you would be _proud_ of me. I took an initiative. I did something that made me happy, and at least this time I didn’t have to burn your things in the process. That little girl — Sarah — was being neglected and abused. Is there no honor and decency in the capital?”

“Of course there is honor and decency — ”

“Then why are you treating me as though I’m a lowborn criminal?” Harry countered. “What have I done to garner such ire? I’ve told you repeatedly that I’ve wanted a child, and here are two without a home, without family. I want to do them some kindness, and so I shall.”

“You can do a great deal of kindness to two children without serving as their ward or adopting them as our heirs.”

Harry stood straighter. “So that’s where the problem lies? That I would like for them to be our heirs?”

“Of course,” Zayn said. “You can’t just take on a decision of this magnitude without asking for my advice — for my counsel. It’s disrespectful, Harry. I’ve told you repeatedly that this is a process, an involved one, one that’s important to me, and you’ve completely shat on my request.”

“How?” Harry insisted. “I have done nothing to bring you dishonor. And just because it’s been done a certain way in the past doesn’t mean that’s how it needs to be now. I’ve spent the last year immersed in your world, learning your language and uncovering your culture. Can’t I — for once — just do something my way?”

Harry had not realized that they were both standing until Zayn slumped back onto their chaise, the fight seemingly leeching out of him all at once. He gestured for Harry to sit beside him and Harry obliged, perching himself delicately at the edge of the seat.

“Listen,” Zayn started. “I know that you do not understand our customs and I know that I have not done a good job of explaining their importance, particularly the ones that I hold dear. But can’t you just accept that this is something I wanted to take our time with? There’s so much we need to worry about right now. There are so many uncertainties. I cannot add _fatherhood_ on top of that. I’m but twenty-years-old, Harry. And you are only nineteen.”

Harry nodded, his hands clenching into fists. “So you do not want to raise these children with me?”

“Harry — ”

“ _Please_ , Zayn. Just answer the question. Even after holding that baby in your arms and watching him sleep, you want nothing to do with him?”

Zayn gazed at Harry, his eyes dark and beseeching. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Instead, Zayn studied the lines of his palms, the arch of his fingernails. He seemed content to provide no response, and that was answer enough.

“If that’s how you would like it to be, _Your Grace_ ,” Harry mumbled. He stood and swept into a deep, mocking bow before making his way out of their quarters. 

 

So much of Harry’s time in the capital had been marked by uncertainty. Uncertainty about his relationship with his husband. Uncertainty about the role he was to play at court. Uncertainty about what was going on in the world beyond the walls and what was becoming of his homeland. Harry hadn’t seen his sister since he was twelve-years-old, and he didn’t know any details about her life as a Queen in one of the Southern Kingdoms. Nor did Harry know what had become of so many of his old friends and acquaintances. And so Harry’s life had been characterized by a steady undercurrent of anxiety and unease, yet he had never truly considered leaving Jinan. He had never seriously thought about seeking refuge outside of the capital’s high walls — not until this night.

This night was different. This night he had fought with his husband and could not think of a way to remedy the situation. He didn’t think he could coax Zayn to his way of thinking with a string of kisses and a good fuck, nor was Harry entirely confident that the Queen could influence Zayn, either, not when Zayn seemed so stubbornly committed to maintaining this particular position.

Harry did not want to abandon Sarah and Joshua. He said that he would take care of them and he intended to stand by his promise. But Harry did not want to choose between them and his husband, either. It did not seem fair. Harry loved Zayn, as fiercely as he had ever loved in his life, and Harry had grown to care for these children, too. These children had no one else, and they needed him. Zayn didn’t.

Zayn never _needed_ Harry, no matter what he said to the contrary. Their relationship had been tilted in Zayn’s benefit from the start. Harry was little more than a pretty token, a reflection of the future monarch’s wealth and power. Zayn paraded Harry around the kingdom and lavished him with gifts. He filled Harry’s head with lies and pretty promises, but he didn’t actually want Harry to have his own independent thoughts. Zayn just wanted Harry to be there for _him_ , standing at Zayn’s side, as charming and stupid as everyone had always said he was.

But Harry didn’t have to play that part if he didn’t want to. Zayn had given him that out at the very beginning. Harry could retreat to the coast, where he could race his horses on the beach day in and day out. Harry could play with Tessa and allow her to hunt and form a pack with other wolves in the forests. Harry could lay out under the sun’s scorching rays and let himself enjoy the long summer weather and the bountiful harvest. He could raise these children, teach them their letters and show them how to be sweet little nobles. And Harry could avoid all of the stress and pretense of court. Harry wouldn’t have to listen to stupid gossip from Louis or Taylor, or concern himself with enterprising nobles like Matty or Eleanor. Harry could just sit on his long porch and grow old alongside his horses, his direwolf, and his children.

All Harry had to do was call Kevin and instruct him and the servants to pack his things. Harry didn’t have to explain himself, not really. No one at this court seemed to think Harry had any honor anyway — they all treated him like little more than a whore purchased for Zayn’s amusement. So he could steal away in the night, with his direwolf and the children, and never look back. It would be the sweetest of lives.

But just as Harry was thinking it, the fantasy began to fall apart. Harry remembered the refugees on the roads and the traitor soldier brought to his house awaiting punishment. Harry remembered the warrior princess his husband had once promised to marry, and Harry thought of how she must have died, her bones sacrificed for the hatchling dragons eating deer meat miles away from Harry’s coastal abode. Harry remembered his fear and his denial, his insistence that he wanted nothing to do with whatever Louis, Matty, and Taylor were all conspiring, and Harry remembered how Liam forced him to confront the reality of their violence anyway.

And finally Harry remembered his promise to his husband. “ _We stand together_.” Harry meant it. He still did.

Harry couldn’t run away. There was no such thing as running away, not when you were a prince. His life was so much more than rising in the morning, toiling in the fields, and dying. He would do what he was told when it pertained to the security of the realm he was now sworn to protect, but he would also guarantee that his legacy wasn’t one of complete passive acceptance.

So Harry tossed his shoulders back, began walking toward the other side of the castle, and started to scheme.

 

Harry spent the night of his and Zayn’s fight in Nick’s rooms. Nick had been unaware of Harry’s adoption — no one knew of Harry’s action beyond the Queen, Eleanor, and Kevin. Nick had been shocked but grudgingly impressed that Harry had managed to keep any kind of secret considering the climate at court, although Harry could tell that Nick also thought Harry’s decision was impulsive and reckless. Foolish. 

Harry awoke early the next morning and sent a servant boy to fetch him clean robes. He bathed, dressed, and then determined to pop in on one of Zayn’s confidantes here at court. And so Harry took particular relish in dropping by Matty and Taylor’s new shared quarters right as the dawn broke across the horizon.

Matty and Taylor’s new rooms were in the same wing of the castle as Taylor’s previous quarters. The space was large, comfortable, and airy, as befitting nobility of their stature, with plenty of tittering servant girls and hulking soldiers running about. Matty and Taylor were both dressed for the day but very surprised to see Harry, naturally. Taylor quickly switched into entertainment mode, sending people down to the kitchens for sweet bread, tea, and fruit.

“We were not expecting you, Your Highness,” Taylor said, sinking into a curtsy and simpering. She still seemed determined to worm her way back into Harry’s favor. But considering that the girl she had once insulted was now Harry’s daughter, Harry doubted Taylor would ever have the honor. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

“I need to speak privately with Matty,” Harry said. “But if you choose to stand by the doorway and listen in, I don’t care.”

Taylor stared at Harry, clearly torn between finding offense with his brusque tone or accepting what he said and leaving. Matty, thankfully, made the decision for her, holding his wife close and kissing her on the cheek before quietly urging her to make herself scarce. 

Matty and Harry grabbed the food and drink that had been sent from the kitchens and retired to a small room holding a desk and several large bookcases. Matty gestured for Harry to sit, and they placed the trays and glasses onto the desk before Matty went in search of another seat. When he returned, it was with a modest wooden chair, and he sat in front of Harry with a wide smile.

“It is wonderful to see you, Your Highness. We haven’t spoken just the two of us in many moons.”

Harry thought back and realized it was true. Most of the time when Harry saw Matty, it was with Zayn or Taylor at his side. He seemed so much smaller without one or both of them lording over him. “It is a pleasure to see you too, Matty. I trust you have been well?”

“Exceptionally well, Your Highness,” Matty said. “My wedding provided me with a happiness I did not even know I was capable of feeling, and the good mood has not abandoned me yet.”

“I’m glad.”

“I’m sure you are, Your Highness,” Matty replied. He ducked his gaze, although Harry could still see the small, sardonic smile playing at the edge of his lips. “And I take it that you are here because you would like my assistance with the Prince?”

Harry appreciated that so many members of this court seemed to detest small talk just as much as he did. Harry also appreciated that Matty already knew that he and Zayn had fought when it had been less than twenty-four hours since Harry had left their quarters. “I would, yes.”

“Why do you think I would be of any assistance?” Matty asked. “Why not go to Tomlinson or the King?”

Harry admitted, “Because I have a complex relationship with both Louis and the King, as I’m sure you well know.”

“Contrary to popular and pervasive belief, hearing and knowing aren’t the same thing,” Matty said.

Matty leaned back in his seat and looked at Harry. _Really_ looked at him, with a sharp, studious gaze. Harry tried not to fidget under the attention. Matty had always proved himself to be friendly. He was one of the first of Zayn’s countrymen to welcome Harry to the kingdom, and he had always been exceedingly kind and polite. Sometimes excruciatingly so. But Taylor had once been polite, too, and Harry had thought Louis was one of his closest friends. Kindness was a frequent precursor to betrayal. It was in Harry’s best interests to remember that.

“What is it that you would have me do?” Matty said. “Your Prince and I — our conversations primarily revolve around business of the realm.”

“Is this not a matter that falls under this category?” Harry asked. “Keeping me happy, securing heirs — all of those are inextricably linked to the kingdom’s security.”

Matty tilted his head in acknowledgement. “I suppose I could phrase it in those terms.”

“Please see that you do.”

“And please remember that I am not a miracle worker,” Matty replied. “Your husband and I do not frequently discuss your marriage. It is none of my business.”

“Which means he will trust you all the more when you make these suggestions.”

“That, or accuse me of being in your pocket when I suddenly bring the subject up.”

“And what would I have given you?” Harry scoffed. “Gold? You have that. Women? You have a beautiful wife and can find mistresses or prostitutes all on your own. You are your own man, Lord Healy, and Zayn knows that.”

Matty sighed and pursed his lips, his face a mask of intense thoughts. But then he nodded. Up until this point, the food had sat on the table between them uneaten, but Matty reached forward to take a piece of sweet bread. With that, the air of tension that sat between them seemed to dissipate, and Harry began eating a pear, too. 

“I will do you this favor,” Matty said. “But I ask one of my own.”

Harry had to restrain from rolling his eyes. He could only imagine that this so-called favor had something to do with Taylor. “Yes, of course. Name it.”

“Please find a way to forgive my wife,” Matty answered. Predictable. “I am not sure what she did to offend you, but she aches for the pleasure of your company. I am sure you do not mean to be cavalier with your affections — ”

“Cavalier?” Harry scoffed. “I’m not a cruel man. I never have been.”

Matty made a low protest of disagreement. “You are quite rude to the women here at court. Not only my wife. You have been dismissive of Lady Calder as well. And one moment Liam was your most trusted companion, and the next you threw him out with the dogs.”

Harry paused. Harry didn’t particularly care what people said about him and Liam, but he was curious about the gossip surrounding his relationships with Taylor and Eleanor. He hadn’t thought that he was being contemptuous of the women at court, but perhaps he did come across as cruel to the few that were in his husband’s circle. He didn’t want people to think that he was scornful or flighty, certainly not any more than he actually was.

“It was never my intention to be dismissive.”

“Intentional or not, that is still how you have behaved,” Matty said. “And so I just ask that you find it in yourself to be kinder. That is all.”

Harry threw his hands up in resignation. “Fine. Is that all, Matty? You do not want gold and women, too?”

“I am content with what I have and I assume I always will be,” Matty said. The words sounded earnest enough, but Harry thought back to the dragons sitting on Matty’s property along the coast, those scaly beasts capable of sowing destruction and leveling cities. Matty’s clandestine involvement in that whole affair was evidence enough that he was more cunning than he let on. Men don’t participate in cloak-and-dagger murder plots when they’re content with their lot in life.

Matty was another wolf playing the part of a sheep, and Harry still needed to figure out why.

 

Harry didn’t see his husband over the next few days. Instead, he bounced from friend to friend, having conversations and playing the part of the conspirator. It was exhausting, but Harry recognized that this moment was an opportunity to make a few things happen for himself at court. He took his meals privately with Queen Trisha or Princess Waliyha or even Princess Doniya and spent his nights with the children now that he no longer had to hide their relationship. Harry even invited Taylor to meet the children — or in Sarah’s case, meet her again now that she was Harry’s child. Taylor was nothing but sweet and charming, and Harry found himself slipping back into their old banter. But all the while Harry reminded himself that Taylor was far more crafty than she seemed, same as Harry. They were all just very good at playing their parts.

From what Matty told Harry, Zayn passed his days taking meetings and brooding. King Yaser said in no uncertain terms that he was indeed revoking the crown this year, and he told Zayn that sometime in the upcoming months would be a good opportunity for the coronation ceremony, as it would also coincide with Zayn and Harry’s first marriage anniversary. Harry wondered how much this development annoyed Zayn in the light of their big row.

Still, Harry admired how good Zayn was at compartmentalizing his issues. Harry knew that he had brought an additional stress into his life, but Zayn was not buckling under the pressure. He still worked. He still rode his horse out in the courtyard whenever he could. And according to one of the stable boys, Zayn had even taken Tessa out hunting with him a few times.

Harry just wished they were talking. But Harry had so many of Zayn’s friends and loved ones on his side for once — the Queen, Zayn’s sisters, Eleanor, Matty, and now even Taylor — that he knew this stalemate would not last for long.

 

Just as Harry expected, Kevin came to Harry a few days later and said that Prince Zayn wanted to take a meal with him later in the afternoon. Harry accepted the invitation and sent Kevin on his way. Harry knew that Kevin had received a stern lecture from Zayn for withholding information about Joshua and Sarah. Thankfully, Zayn had not punished Kevin as well, but it did make Harry wonder about Kevin’s potential role as an informer for the crown, and whether Harry should trust and confide in the man as much as he did.

Harry met Zayn in one of the main atriums in the castle — a public place for a public reconciliation. Harry knew court was all a titter, absolutely awash with gossip, and Zayn was a more manipulative ruler than perhaps they realized. So Harry made his way down the staircase, wearing emerald robes the same shade as his eyes, and embraced Zayn at the bottom of the steps while several lords and ladies looked on and pretended as though they were not talking about the young royals behind their hands. Zayn took Harry’s wrist and led him out into the courtyard, where a carriage was waiting for them. There was food inside of the carriage as well, chicken, greens, a basket of fruit, and wine that Harry was hesitant to drink while they were in motion. But it was such an impressive display, so characteristic of Zayn’s grand gestures, like the gift of a horse for every occasion, or a rare direwolf, or rooms so resplendent Harry felt as though he were living in a dream.

“You’ve certainly gone above and beyond,” Harry said, chancing a glance at Zayn. He was dazzling, same as always, but he still seemed tired. Princes should not be as exhausted as Zayn was. Harry felt guilty, even though he knew their petty drama could not be the source of the dark circles underneath Zayn’s eyes. “Where are we riding to?”

“Nowhere in particular,” Zayn replied. “I just told them to take us on a scenic ride so that we could get away from court for a while. Is this okay?”

“Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You’re upset with me.” Zayn answered. “I know that we quarrel — that is just the nature of our relationship — but you’ve never shut me out like this before.”

“I hardly shut you out at all,” Harry said. “I was never clandestine about my movements.”

“You haven’t come back to our bedroom for days.”

“So because I wasn’t still fucking you every night, I shut you out?” Harry asked. “I’m not sure that’s what happened.”

Zayn scoffed, but he smirked at Harry, too. “Then what happened?”

“I took some time to do what I needed to do,” Harry answered simply. “What about you?”

“I took some time to think everything over. And — and I have an idea. But I’m not sure if you’ll like it.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”

“I do think you have a point — several points. You have been very forthcoming about your desire to find an heir, and I do think that I was very dismissive. I wanted to take my time, but I want you to be happy, too. You could have much worse ideas in your head — far more malevolent ones. So I’m willing to compromise.”

“How?”

“We will recognize the boy as our heir during the coronation,” Zayn said. “In time I may choose to recognize the girl as well, but she’s older and I know nothing of her. She’s already her own person in a way that the baby isn’t.”

Harry frowned, thinking of his older sister, Gemma. The daughter who was ignored in favor of the charismatic, male future monarch. And Sarah reminded Harry so much of Gemma. Certainly not in terms of looks, but in their personalities. They were both audacious. Brave. 

It didn’t feel fair that one child would wake up tomorrow a Prince while the other didn’t, but Harry knew this was the best offer he was going to get. And it was a good deal. Didn’t Harry want for Zayn to see himself in Joshua, just as Harry already did?

“I’m glad that you have given this some thought,” Harry said. “And of course I think these are good terms. I’m willing to compromise.”

Zayn’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “Thank the gods. Now, please, Harry. Let’s eat and put this whole matter behind us.”

Harry grinned, leaning over to seal the discussion with a kiss.

 

The next fortnight passed in a blur. Harry converted one of the spare rooms in his and Zayn’s wing of the castle into quarters fit for a little prince and his older sister, found nannies, and met with the King and Queen to learn what was expected of Malik children. He played with Joshua and Sarah as much as he could. He brought in tailors and accepted more baby gifts than he knew what to do with. It felt like ages before Harry was able to find any time for himself.

But when he did, the sun was beginning to dip in its arc across the sky, and it was warm, although not quite sweltering. Harry felt like his mother’s son with the retainer of people trailing him through the garden maze — Kevin and two other bodyguards there for the children’s protection, as well as a nanny for Joshua, Eleanor and Taylor in their long, flowing dresses and umbrellas to shield them from the heat, Nick and Niall conversing behind the women, and then Harry himself, with Tessa the direwolf walking in front of him, Joshua in his arms, and Sarah skipping beside him and chattering about one of the books Eleanor promised to read to her. Harry’s mother had always been such a social queen, finding time to stroll about the castle grounds with her Ladies-in-waiting, charming visiting royals and entertaining whenever she had the chance. It was past time for Harry to take a line out of her book. Not that Harry had ever forgotten, but it was certainly true that the people wouldn’t kill him if they loved him.

Harry led the way to his favorite bench in the heart of the maze. He took his seat and gestured for Sarah to stand in front of him, smoothing the hem of her dress with the hand that wasn’t still balancing Joshua on his hip. The nanny put a blanket down on the grass and Eleanor and Taylor took their place there, gesturing for Sarah to play with them when Harry was no longer fussing with her clothes. And then Nick and Niall sat on either side of Harry, Niall eagerly taking Joshua from Harry’s arms and singing softly to the baby while Nick and Harry discussed a bold new acting troupe that was putting on comedies in the capital.

It felt like a scene from one of the Knight-Errant’s tales. The Knight and his merry troupe all enjoying the late afternoon sun together: Jack the Archer, Autumn the Animal-Whisperer, the Knight’s best friend Luke, and of course Tessa the Wise. Harry felt like he was finally getting closer to achieving his own fairy tale ending. He had a husband who loved him, and more riches than he could ever spend. He had children who brought him joy. And he had friends who interspersed his days with joking and revelry.

For one afternoon, Harry forgot that the Knight-Errant’s tales did not always end in triumph and birdsong. Jack the Archer, the most feared bowman in the kingdom, lost his hand in battle and the Knight-Errant tricked a witch into making a new one for Jack. This new hand was expertly crafted, made of the finest gold, and it fit onto Jack’s stump and made him feel whole again. But the fingers of the gold hand were only pretty to look at, and they faltered when it came time to hold a bow. Jack never flew an arrow again, but the rage he felt over losing this skill made him formidable at swinging a sword. Autumn the Animal-Whisperer once became separated from the Knight-Errant’s guard, and she was captured by wildlings from the North. She called upon mountain lions to see her to safety, but the experience of being held captive traumatized her. Whenever the Knight-Errant had to travel northbound, she always stayed behind, crying and begging the Knight to pick a different adventure so that she could follow. 

The Knight-Errant’s gallant love for his best friend Luke was the primary narrative arc in the tales, driving the Knight across mountains and forests and seas and plains to find the friend that had been stolen from him. When the Knight-Errant finally found Luke, he had been sold into slavery, and the poor boy’s memory had been destroyed. The Knight-Errant sold all of his riches — horses and gold and fine clothing bestowed by grateful Kings from all over the known world — to a priestess to make Luke whole again, although, of course, this was an impossible task.

And then, of course, there was Tessa the Wise, whose life was defined by fire. The fire that the Knight-Errant rescued her from, and then another fire that killed her.

Harry imagined the fire that killed Tessa was probably something like the fire that was raging through his own palace now.

 

The fire started suddenly and spread with hellish alacrity, like a demon’s blaze. Like something out of a nightmare. Like a curse, like wildfire. One moment it was a peaceful, endless summer’s day, and the next, there was smoke everywhere, black, thick, and choking. It cloaked the horizon and hung heavy like fog, stinging Harry’s eyes and causing them to water. Harry sputtered and coughed, swiping at his itchy eyes. He tried to remember what it was like to breathe normally. 

But mostly, he tried to make his way out of the maze. He knew, with some strange, innate surety that he had never felt before, that he had to find Zayn. And he knew that Zayn was still inside of the castle.

And so Harry ran, faster than he had ever run, trying to make his way through the maze and back toward the castle. But it was hard, because there was so much smoke and he was coughing more than he was breathing. And this was a _maze_ , with brush and trees and benches and people in his way, all obstructing his path. Harry gasped on the smoke, feeling like a trout flapping against a fishermen’s hull, his fingers catching on branches and his clothes snagging on undergrowth. He thought he might be bleeding, but he persevered as best he could. He knew Kevin was trailing him, a cloth over his mouth, as were Nick and Niall, but Harry had commanded for the others to stay behind the minute Taylor had spotted the first wisp of smoke. Harry was impulsive, reckless, and terrified, but he knew that someone had to remain with the children to keep them safe.

The journey felt as though it had taken hours, but it must have been only minutes. Harry was almost retching up his afternoon meal by the time he finally staggered out of the maze, dazed and blinking against the stinging dark. But when he looked up at the castle, he felt bowled over by the sight that greeted him. 

The fire was roaring like a beast, horrible and magnificent. Glass had burst and fallen down to the ground below, coating the immaculate grass with melted bits of red and blue and green. Flames were licking out of the naked window frames, scorching the castle walls and scraping black along the ancient structure. But strangely, the blaze seemed relatively self-contained to only one wing of the castle. 

The wing where Harry and Zayn slept.

“No.” Harry would’ve properly screamed if he could, but his throat felt as though someone had wrapped their hands around it. So it was really little more than a whisper when he screeched, “ _No_!” 

There were soldiers standing around the entrance, keeping onlookers from the gardens and stables from entering the burning castle. Harry made to run past them all, through the open doors and into the blaze to find his husband, but he hesitated long enough that Kevin was able to grab Harry around the neck and restrain him.

“Let me go!” Harry wheezed. “I command it, Kevin! I have to find Zayn!”

Harry struggled, but Kevin only bared down harder. Kevin was stocky and shorter than Harry, but he was strong and unrelenting. Harry scratched against Kevin’s arm, even tried to bite him, but there was no use. Not when Harry couldn’t see. Not when Harry couldn’t _breathe_. There was smoke everywhere, thick and obscuring like an early dusk had fallen, and Zayn was still inside with the demon fire. 

Harry could feel that Zayn was in there, was sure enough that he would bet his own life on it. Zayn was probably inside when the blaze started, resting, poring over his maps, or even looking for Harry. Zayn was inside of their rooms and Harry needed to go find him. Harry needed to save him. Harry needed to move. He needed to push his way past the soldiers, he needed to climb the spiraling staircases. He needed to run down corridors and drag Zayn from the flames. But first Harry needed to get Kevin off of him, because he couldn’t breathe —

There was suddenly a huge ruckus at the doors. Kevin’s grasp loosened just enough at the sound and Harry elbowed his guard hard in the chest. Kevin sucked in a shocked breath and let go, and Harry went barreling toward the entrance, pushing through the crowd of onlookers and ignoring their shocked protestations when he stepped on their feet and dripped blood from the wounds on his hands onto their clothes.

Harry made it to the front of the throng in just enough time to see three men come stumbling out of the palace doors. The first two men were Matty and Louis. They appeared fine, only winded, eyes wide like they had just seen a ghost.

It took Harry a beat to place the third man, but when he did, he felt himself go faint.

His royal purple robes were singed and in tatters, and there were ugly red burns covering his hands. His hair was also a strange, shocking blonde, almost so light it appeared white under the smoke’s hellish early dusk. The sight of this blonde made Harry think of magic and of old renderings of Targaryens riding on dragons, conquering Westeros and sitting on the Iron Throne. But still, even burned, dusty, and with curious, unnatural hair, the man was as beautiful as he’d been the day Harry met and married him.

For several long moments, an eerie stillness hung about the courtyard. The fire raged, loud and contentious, great booms as it consumed all of Harry and Zayn’s possessions and shattered centuries-old glass. The smoke was still thick and oppressive, a great cloak that hung over the gardens and sent everyone under its spell into a fit of coughs. And in the distance, Harry could hear Tessa’s howl, a long forlorn cry that seemed to stir all of the dogs and wolves in Jinan. And yet the minute Zayn hobbled out of the palace, the courtyard felt still and tenuous, as fragile as a spider’s web or a yarn of silk. Half of court watched their future King move with bated breath, and for once Harry felt like a part of them, his heart drumming an uneven beat against his ribcage.

Zayn made it about four steps outside of the palace before he collapsed.

There was a ragged cry and it took Harry a half-second before he realized that it came from his own tortured throat. 

And then there was absolute chaos. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still laugh when I remember how this fic was supposed to be only seven chapters.


	19. Part Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry was not used to being terrified for another human being. So much of his life up until this point had been focused on himself — his needs, his desires, his dreams, his frustrations. Harry hadn’t had cause to be scared for Zayn before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Fee, Grace, Rue and Emily for beta reading for me again. This chapter is an absolute monster in more ways than one, so I really appreciate it.
> 
> And thank you, as well, to Sasha for not getting weirded out when I asked for [chapter art where there was blood smeared all over Harry's face.](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/post/141956239346/chase-the-devil-part-eighteen-harry-was-not-used)
> 
> I have been told by my aforementioned betas that this chapter is a little gross, so maybe don't eat anything while you're reading? Especially toward the end.

Harry can remember the first time he burned himself as a child. He was young and stupid, hadn’t fully understood the consequences of sticking his hand into a fire to grab a coal as it turned red and orange and white. He merely thought the flames were pretty and wanted to feel it for himself. He thrust his arm into the fire for a moment, but the damage had been done. He cried for days afterwards, playing up his injury while Lady Cole cooed over his burnt fingers, changed his wrappings, and spoiled him with sweets. 

Zayn’s burns were _nothing_ like that.

Harry was not used to being terrified for another human being. So much of his life up until this point had been focused on himself — his needs, his desires, his dreams, his frustrations. Harry knew he loved Zayn and cared for him, and Harry would do anything his husband asked, within reason. But Harry hadn’t had cause to be _scared_ for Zayn before. The realization that this beautiful, intelligent, thoughtful man had nearly been snatched away from him made Harry more than a little hysterical.

Queen Trisha was also distraught, as were the young Princesses, but King Yaser’s reaction was something else entirely. Harry had maintained a healthy fear of his father-in-law and kept a respectful distance, and in the moment he felt as though his instincts were a godsend. The King’s anger was as awe-inspiring as a lion’s, roiling and furious. He yelled at soldiers, at noblemen, at anyone who so much as ventured into his path. Harry, dazed and fearful as he was, did his best to stay out of the King’s way. 

Harry and Zayn’s rooms were entirely consumed by the fire, and soldiers were searching the castle for the arsonist, so Zayn was discretely moved to the Calder estate following the spectacle on the grounds. The royal family moved together in a caravan, their horse-drawn carriages looping through the city streets. 

The Calder’s castle sat on top of a hill overlooking the capital. Harry had seen the house off in the distance whenever he visited the marketplace, but he’d never bothered to ask who owned it. He’d assumed it was deserted for some silly reason, but according to Kevin, outside of the palace, the Calder home was the most secure property in the entirety of Jinan. Harry wondered what made it so safe.

Eleanor’s family was a lesser house, one rich in heritage and history, but poorer in coin than others who had profited during the war years. Still, a name could go very far, as Eleanor’s high esteem at court proved, and if Harry were in a more rational state of mind, he would take the time to marvel over the rare treasures in her home. There was a sword made of Valyrian steel mounted in the main entertainment room and a Dothraki Arakh in one of the hallways. And then there were books, cases and rooms full of old, precious manuscripts. It was like stepping into one of the rooms at the university, a place steeped in culture and antiquity. Harry could’ve lost himself there. But he was distracted, and so he paid none of this any mind.

King Yaser had insisted that Harry ride separately from Zayn to the Calder’s estate for his own safety, but Harry vowed that his place was at Zayn’s side. Harry accompanied Zayn and an esteemed magi to the Calder home, and Eleanor, the nanny, and the two children followed close behind. 

The magi was an old man, a healer with brown skin and short, cropped black hair. He hardly spoke in the carriage, just murmured to Harry to stay out of the way once they arrived and to keep quiet. Harry did as he was bid, following anxiously while soldiers lifted Zayn’s prostrate form into a lord’s room in the castle, and then watching while the magi began his long healing work. The magi barked orders to skittish servants loitering by the door and then tended to Zayn’s burns and attempted to clear the smoke from his lungs. The magi bathed Zayn’s wounds gingerly and chanted and mixed potions and sang. The healer’s words and the stress of the day made Harry feel drowsy. He batted his eyes stubbornly, determined to remain vigilant for his husband’s sake, but it was not long before he collapsed into a nearby chair and sank into the seductive darkness.

 

When Harry stirred, the sun had long sunk and Zayn was asleep. There were healing leaves all over Zayn’s arms and hands, stuck to the skin with an ointment that filled the entire room with a foul, odorous stench. Harry wondered whether they had given Zayn milk of the poppy for his pain, too. He looked so peaceful, lips pursed, eyelids and cheeks a rosy, deceptively healthy pink. He appeared as he always did when he slept, sweet, tranquil, and innocent, a god turned copper and made flesh. At a glance, you would not have known anything was amiss, save for the shock of white-blonde hair atop his head. 

Zayn’s blonde hair reminded Harry of paintings he’d seen of Targaryens in the old castles and fortresses back in Holmes. The Targaryens were rulers of Westeros once, long ago when the continent was claimed by one king. And then five. And then a dragon with three heads. But the Targaryens all had white-blonde hair, fair skin, and violet eyes. From what Harry remembered of his studies, they were all mad, too — probably because of the generations of incest and the morbid obsession with fire.

Harry wondered what it meant that Zayn had come out of the fire looking like a Targaryen. Was this some sort of sign — a premonition? Zayn was already like the Mother of Dragons in so many ways. Determined and fearless, and now they both had dragons at their disposal. They were both formidable beings and they were both monarchs.

Harry moved his chair closer to Zayn’s bed and lit a candle, a fragrant, honey-scented one to dispel the odor of Zayn’s wounds and the ointment that would heal them. Harry wanted to touch his husband, hold his hands, and murmur that everything was going to be all right. He ached to find reassurance in a caress, longed to make sense out of the irrational violence that had been done, but he couldn’t. 

Queen Anne was not particularly spiritual, but whenever Harry’s father went away for battle, she would come into Harry’s room and smooth the fringe out of his eyes. Queen Anne and King Des had a fraught relationship more often than not, but she still worried when her husband left court. Sometimes, when Harry asked if she was scared, the Queen would say that the night was dark and full of terrors. It was an old saying, something murmured by those who worshipped one god. The words always made Harry feel uneasy. Even when their castles were being burned, when there were traitors hung in their courtyard and his sister was being sent away for her own safety, Harry thought of war as something distant, a specter without teeth. He didn’t quite understand what his mother meant. Not until now.

Harry felt hopeless and powerless. The night had brought Harry fire and he had nothing to combat it with. All Harry could do was hope and pray to gods he had long forgotten.

And so he bowed his head and did just that.

 

The next time Harry stirred, he had a crick in his back from where he had fallen asleep hunched over the mattress, his face mashed against Zayn’s thigh. Harry groaned, trying to recall the inky tendrils of what was probably a nightmare, and peered blearily about the room. Sunlight streamed in through the open windows and Harry could hear birdsong and the soft titter of a waking household. Scampering footsteps, servants calling to each other, bursts of laughter as people passed by the door. The warm smell of pastries and frying meat. It was marginally comforting that even in the midst of a hellish blaze, the rest of the universe continued as it always did. 

The room the Calders had placed Zayn in was spacious and tastefully decorated. Harry dimly recalled that they insisted it was one befitting a future King, and Harry agreed. There were high, oval windows overlooking the sprawling capital and a chandelier in the middle of the room dripping crystals, jade, and other precious jewels. The bed Zayn was sleeping on was exceptionally large, big enough to comfortably fit at least four men, and the thick hangings covering the canopy had been pulled back to allow the magi to work more easily. Beside the bed was a small table with water goblets and unlabeled vials oozing green, purple, and white substances. Harry eyed them all with slight distrust. 

The opposite wall was composed primarily of a bookshelf. Harry forced himself out of his chair and strolled over to it, running his fingers over the dusty spines. Most of the manuscripts appeared to be in Nia, which Harry could read now without much difficulty, but there were also a few in the Common Tongue, and even some in High Valyrian, not that those did Harry any good. Harry’s tutors had never bothered to teach him the dead language.

Harry pulled down a book at random, muttering the title to himself. _The Fires of the Freehold_. It was massive and the title seemed slightly familiar, but when Harry opened it, he saw a note from whatever maester had copied it that several scrolls were missing.

“Galendro wrote that,” a voice said at Harry’s side. Harry was so surprised he nearly dropped the manuscript on his foot. He caught it at the last minute and shoved it back into the bookcase, turning toward the King and sinking into a bow.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” Harry said, directing his words to King Yaser’s boots. “I did not realize you were in the room.”

“Rise, my son,” King Yaser answered, chuckling. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

Harry straightened and fidgeted nervously with the hem of his robes. The King had always made Harry feel uneasy, like a child awaiting a scolding. “It is not your doing, Your Grace. I should have been more attentive.”

“Your nerves are frayed, and understandably so,” the King remarked. “I should have had the magi tend to you as well. I apologize for my oversight.”

“The Prince was your priority,” Harry answered. He forgot his manners and started to shrug, but thankfully aborted the gesture just in time. “As was mine.”

“Have you eaten?”

Harry shook his head. “Not since yesterday, Your Grace.”

“You should eat,” the King said. “The cooks here are exceptional and they will tend to your every desire. I will also summon the magi to brew something for you. Have you slept?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Fitfully? Or was it a deep, restive sleep?”

Harry bit at his lip. “I slept at the Prince’s side, Your Grace.”

“In the bed?”

Harry shook his head, a blush fighting to bloom across his face. The King knew that Harry and Zayn were intimate — everyone at court knew that — but Harry still didn’t feel comfortable talking about such things with Zayn’s father. “No, Your Grace. In the chair at his side.”

The King shook his head and sighed. “The magi is still in the city. He will provide you with a dreamless sleep potion. There are rooms fit to your liking three doors down.”

“No, Your Grace,” Harry protested. “I can’t — Zayn — I have to be here with him.”

King Yaser peered at Harry. He had brown eyes the same shade as his son, but whenever King Yaser looked at Harry too closely, Harry wanted to turn away and hide. The man might be Harry’s father now, but he would always be a warrior, the same one who once laid waste to the territories beyond Jinan’s walls, ordered mercenaries to burn Queen Anne’s favorite castle, and who sacked cities in pursuit of Harry’s father. King Yaser was shrewd and cunning, a famed fighter and strategist, and he would always make Harry feel apprehensive. Harry had grown up hearing tales of King Yaser’s callousness, had spent most of his life thinking of the man as some sort of wraith. Harry could see now that these were primarily the sorts of legends that spring up around any king, but the initial kernel of truth still remained that King Yaser was not the sort of man to treat lightly.

“And what can you do for my son that the magi cannot?” King Yaser inquired.

Harry looked at his hands, feeling like a little boy reciting his histories. “Nothing, Your Grace, except tend to his heart. I want to be here when he wakes up.”

The King hummed. If it was supposed to be comforting, he failed. “I understand your fears. I also understand your dedication. Your love for my son brings me great joy and comfort. But it is also a risk to keep the two of you in the same room. I wish that I could send you back to the palace with a retainer of your own, or along to Zayn’s home in the mountains.”

“Split us up?” Harry squeaked. “But Your Grace — ”

“I know that you would never agree to this,” King Yaser interrupted. “But at the very least, I do want you out of this room, and back with the children you have adopted. That way, a traitor could not hope to make quick work of _both_ you and Zayn.”

Harry felt a pang of guilt at the mention of Joshua and Sarah and tried not to squirm with his discomfort. He hadn’t thought of the children since he’d followed the magi into this room. He trusted that they were safe and having all of their needs met. No one would harm them, not while Eleanor and Kevin were watching over them. Most people did not realize they even _existed_ yet.

So Harry forced down his remorse and focused in on the rest of King Yaser’s words. Harry could not entirely follow the King’s logic. King Yaser seemed less concerned with Harry’s safety and more focused on removing Harry from Zayn’s room and his presence. But why? What had Harry done?

“Your Grace, you do not think that I was the one behind the fire, do you?” Harry asked, pivoting to face his father-in-law completely.

King Yaser’s face might as well had been made of stone for all that it gave away. “Where in the world would you get that idea, Harry?”

“If you think me guilty, then try me before the court,” Harry said, doing his best to speak plainly. “Lock me up in the cells below the palace or up in a tower. I will go willingly. If not, let me stay with my husband where I belong.”

King Yaser sighed and looked back toward the bed. Harry followed his gaze. Zayn was still lying prostrate on the mattress, cheeks flushed and breathing slowly. He looked placid, completely undisturbed. Comfortable and dreamy. Harry wished he could have similar peace.

“You belong with the babe and the young girl. But we can speak again on the morrow,” King Yaser said. “Eat. Then I will send the magi to brew for you. You gain nothing by wasting away at my son’s side.”

Harry bowed as The King left the room, his head spinning. King Yaser exited just as silently as he entered.

 

Harry did as he was bid. He ate the food sent up from the kitchens and read from one of the old tomes in the bookcase. He stared outside of the window at the city below, memorizing the winding roads, old sienna buildings, and bustling marketplace. He tried to dispel the image of Zayn careening out of the fire from his mind. He sat at Zayn’s bedside and wiped tears from his cheeks, feeling drawn out and thoroughly exhausted. And then, when the magi returned, he dutifully accepted a sleep potion and crept into bed beside Zayn, taking pains to settle at the opposite end of the bed so as to not disturb his husband.

Harry slept and thankfully he did not dream. There was only dark relief and heat, and when he woke, it was with the sun in his eyes and the shadow of blood in his mouth.

 

King Yaser sent one of his men to relocate Harry the next day. Harry was placed down the hall, in an airy room overlooking the stables. There was a canopy bed, a desk stacked with histories from the bookcase in Zayn’s room, and a cradle for Joshua tucked away in the corner. The King’s men told Harry that the estate was under strict surveillance and that he should limit his activities to this floor of the castle. The guards outside of Harry’s door and the room’s stark furnishings let Harry know what his tasks were to be over the next few days while Zayn healed: tend to Zayn’s heir, read, and stay out of the way.

Kevin returned to Harry the same day, looking as shaken and exhausted as Harry felt. Harry had wondered distantly where the man had been over the last two days, and Kevin told Harry that he had mainly taken to wandering the grounds since The King had posted other soldiers throughout the Calder castle. The King had also taken to holding hushed council meetings in an old war room in the bowels of the Calder home. Kevin was obviously not allowed into these discussions, but he’d overheard enough conversations to know the tidings outside of the capital were not good. 

Despite the illusion of tranquility outside of Harry’s open windows, unrest continued to simmer just underneath the surface. The news of Zayn’s injuries had reached the townspeople and were spreading throughout the kingdom, along with the customary additions and alterations. Word had gotten out that Zayn had emerged from the flames with white-blonde hair, and some were calling Zayn “The Unburnt,” same as they had once labeled Daenerys Targaryen. Harry felt vaguely relieved that some were drawing the same conclusions he had — that perhaps there was some sort of connection between the two rulers.

The tidings of this attack upon the future monarch did not taper the stream of refugees into Jinan. Strangely enough, the news was making travelers more anxious to find themselves within the city gates. The same could be said of the nobility living outside of the capital walls. The uncertainty along the coast and in the mountainous territories previously under the dominion of Zayn’s former betrothed, Princess Edwards, had propelled many noblemen out of their family homes. Some were seeking refuge at court, while others were jamming into inns and previously neglected family homes. They were traversing the roads in ornate carriages and lugging their belongings in expensive trunks, leaving themselves perfectly vulnerable to thieves and vagabonds.

“I heard word that several noblemen who had left court prior to your wedding have returned,” Kevin said. “This includes some of your husband’s dear friends. Justin Bieber and Shahid Khan. A woman named Jelena Hadid who had once vied for the Prince’s affection. They have all sent their condolences and wish to have an audience with you soon.”

Harry tried not to shudder at the memory of staying with Lord Bieber when he first arrived in the kingdom. It was only a year ago, but Harry felt like the boy Bieber encountered was an entirely different person than the man who sat at this desk and listened to Kevin’s reports now. Harry had lost so much in the interim — his mother, the thought of Holmes as an indestructible kingdom, the last of his innocence, maybe — but he’d somehow gained even more, too. A husband. Children. A new home. A new place for himself here in Jinan. Purpose and meaning.

“The King will want me to return to court in a few days, I’m sure,” Harry said. “He seems eager to have me removed from the Calder’s hospitality. I can meet with all of these noblemen then.”

“The King is not particularly eager to have you transplanted,” Kevin replied hesitantly. “Your Highness, may I speak frankly?”

Harry frowned. “Yes, of course. What is it?”

“I know I’m not a high-class man,” Kevin began. “I have no title and I cannot read, either. But I am loyal to you and to Prince Zayn and will always do right by the two of you. You’re both very good men. I — the King does not trust the Calders. I overheard him saying as much to Duke Healy. He thinks they are very enterprising and too cunning by half. I think he wants you back at court because he legitimately believes that is where you are safest. The Queen will be returning in a few days as well.”

Harry only frowned deeper. “But Eleanor Calder — I asked her to tend to Joshua and Sarah’s teachings.”

“I know,” Kevin said. “And I don’t think she would do wrong by the children. But can I say the same about you? No, Your Highness. I can’t. Not in good faith.”

Harry put his chin on his fist and tried not to sigh. “Thank you for your honest counsel, Kevin. I appreciate it. More than I can say.”

Kevin smiled wanly and made to see himself out of the room, no doubt to go eavesdrop on more conversations, when Louis Tomlinson and Matty Healy barreled in instead.

The first thing Harry noticed was that Louis was leading and Matty was trailing after him like an anxious puppy. The second thing Harry noticed was that Louis was _livid_. His face was a reddish-purple and his lips were twisted up in a sneer. Harry didn’t think he had ever seen such viciousness on Louis’ countenance. But Harry forced himself to remain still because he realized he had nothing to be afraid of. Louis could snarl and gnash his teeth all he wanted; he wouldn’t dare raise a hand against Harry again.

“Tomlinson. Healy,” Harry greeted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I was not aware I was going to see either of you this afternoon. How — ”

“Skip the pleasantries, I do not have the time,” Louis growled as he made his way to Harry’s desk. His eyes were little more than blue slits. “You traitorous, sniveling, despicable swineherd — ”

“Duke Tomlinson,” Matty hissed, placing a steadying hand on Louis’ arm. “I have _told_ you. Now is neither the time nor the place.”

“When would it be?” Louis demanded. “And who are you to defend the Whore of Holmes — ”

Harry wasn’t sure if he was angry or amused by Louis’ sudden appearance. At least the Whore of Holmes had some alliterative value. “I wonder what the Prince would say if he heard such filth spewing from your mouth,” Harry said. “He does seem unaware of your blatant and continued disrespect for his husband and your Prince Consort. Perhaps when he is better I can enlighten him and he’ll finally do me the great pleasure of removing you from court.”

Louis somehow managed to bloom an even deeper scarlet. “How dare you.”

“How dare I?” Harry repeated. “How dare you call me traitorous and sniveling! What in the seven hells has gotten into you?”

Louis had the gall to laugh at Harry. “What are my words after the stunt you performed?”

“Stunt?” Harry said. He felt like a parrot, repeating all of Louis’ words in increasingly shriller tones. “What are you talking about?”

“The fire!” Louis yelled. “You set it!”

Harry felt so blindsided he almost fell out of his chair. Gods, first the King, and now Tomlinson. Did everyone think Harry a traitor? Did they really think he was capable of such mayhem and destruction? “You think I would do something like that to Zayn?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Louis demanded. “This is clearly a murder attempt on the future King, and who has better reason to remove Zayn than you? When King Yaser abdicates or grows old, the throne falls to you and Zayn, and without Zayn in the way, who is there _but_ you? You recently acquired two village rats to serve as your heirs. Zayn was looking for _you_ when the fire started — he cancelled his meetings and was insistent that he wanted to spend time with you and your brats. And gods, the fire was set in your quarters and most of court doesn’t even know that you and Zayn have new rooms. All signs point to you, my dear Prince! I’m surprised King Yaser hasn’t already sent the guard to capture you and throw you in the tower!”

“Tomlinson,” Matty hissed, wrapping his hand around Louis’ arm and yanking him back. “ _Enough_.”

Harry blinked rapidly, fighting back tears. He wouldn’t cry. He would not give Louis the satisfaction, even though it stung to know Louis thought so little of him. “I would never do that to Zayn,” Harry said. “You — you should know that, Louis. Of all people, you should know.” 

“I don’t _know_ anything,” Louis said. “Not about you. Not anymore.”

Harry felt strangely compelled to throw a tantrum, to slam himself against the floor. He wanted to scream and yell, he wanted to tear at his clothing and make everyone see how _unfair_ this was. Because Louis was accusing Harry of treason — of conspiring to murder the future King and assume the throne in his place — and crazily enough, Harry could follow the logic. He could see how any rational man might reach the same conclusion. And that was a terrifying thought for Harry — and for his children.

But Harry resisted the urge to throw a fit. He was a Prince, a man grown, and his husband was lying in the next room over, burned and bruised. Zayn would know the truth once he woke, and he needed Harry by his side to save this kingdom from chaos. Together they would find their way out of this.

“If you are compiling a case against me, I thank you for presenting the charges I will have to refute,” Harry said, as politely as he could manage. “Now if you will excuse me, I have things to tend to. It was a pleasure to speak with you both.”

And with that, Kevin and Matty escorted a fuming Louis from Harry’s room.

 

It would be another two days before Zayn woke. It was the middle of the night when Kevin shook Harry awake to tell him. Harry was the first person Zayn asked to see, but hours passed in the interim. The King had insisted he needed to meet with his son first.

Harry blinked at Kevin blearily and threw on a crumpled robe he had discarded on the floor earlier in the evening. He had done little during the day besides play with the children, and once night fell, he swallowed another vial of dreamless sleep potion, desperate to avoid nightmares filled with blood and fire. But now it was time to see Zayn. Harry tried to force himself into consciousness and padded his way to Zayn’s room. 

Even injured and weak, Zayn was still the most beautiful man Harry had ever laid his eyes on. His arms and hands were still badly burned, the skin red, prune-like and inflamed, slashes of crimson where intricate, swirling tattoos had once lived.

And then there was the matter of his hair. Blonde, almost white. A shock of paleness against Zayn’s scalp.

Zayn looked mortal for once, far more so than he had when he was asleep. It shocked Harry to even think it, to realize just how close he had been to losing Zayn. But Zayn had looked into the face of death and come out on the other side. He’d confronted fire and emerged from the inferno relatively unscathed.

Zayn smiled warmly at Harry when he entered the room. He raised a scarred hand and the magi that had been tending to him darted out the door, head bowed and eyes averted. Harry waited for the wood to fall shut before he sat in the chair by Zayn’s side, gulping as his eyes tracked over his husband’s now terrifyingly foreign body.

“I’ve been asking for you,” Zayn said. His voice sounded dry and brittle and Harry stood immediately, pouring water into a goblet at Zayn’s bedside. Harry helped prop Zayn up so he could drink, placing the goblet back onto Zayn’s table when he had his fill and regaining his seat. “For hours, I asked where you were. You were the first person I wanted to see, but they denied me.”

Harry pursed his lips. “I was not allowed to see you after the first few days.”

“By whose orders?”

“Your father’s.”

Zayn didn’t curse, but Harry could see the desire flash across his eyes. Instead Zayn frowned and fell silent.

“They think I set the fire,” Harry said. “Your father implied it and your bastard brother confronted me on the matter directly. They think that it was somehow my design. But Zayn, you must know that I would never, _ever_ hurt you.” Zayn’s hands were still wrapped in leaves and paste to heal the burns, but Harry slid his fingers forward to tentatively touch his husband again. He felt unnaturally warm, reminding Harry of the dragon eggs Louis had once placed in his lap. Harry wanted to jerk away, but he pushed past the urge. All the while, Zayn watched him, face soft and almost impassive. “You _have_ to see this. You must know that, Zayn. I am not guilty of this violence I have been accused of.”

The corner of Zayn’s lips lifted and the dry squeeze he pressed to Harry’s palm was almost reassuring. “Of course I do,” Zayn replied. “We’re soulmates. You were made for me and I for you. I believe in the passion of our love. In the intensity and the power. So if you wanted me dead, I would be.”

Harry blinked. It was perhaps the most backward consolation he had ever received, but Harry still appreciated the sentiment. 

And Harry knew that Zayn’s words were true. If Harry genuinely wanted to kill his husband, he would engineer a riding accident. Or he would slowly poison Zayn with something tasteless and untraceable, letting the entire world think Zayn had fallen ill with some long-lasting and mysterious illness. He would guarantee his success, and he certainly wouldn’t draw attention to himself by starting a loud and very brazen fire. If Harry wanted Zayn to die, then Zayn would die, Harry would mourn, and that would be the end of their story.

It was almost reassuring that Zayn knew Harry well enough to see that.

“You know who did this to you,” Harry said, peering at Zayn closely.

Zayn shook his head. “I have no certainties. Only suspicions.”

“Tell me.”

“I can’t,” Zayn said. “I’m not out there with the rest of court right now. I _can’t_ be. So I need you to return to the castle and be my eyes and ears — without my judgements, without any of my fears or doubts clouding your observation.”

“But you _do_ think it is the work of someone close — someone at court.”

Zayn nodded his head. “I do. And I also doubt that I was the intended target.”

Harry pulled his robes tighter around himself and shivered. When Harry thought on it, he realized he didn’t believe Zayn was the intended victim, either. How could he be, with all of the oddities and coincidences that had been occurring of late? A man on the coast bearing the Usurper’s mark had already been captured in the midst of some grand, harebrained scheme to bring Harry harm. There were declarations amongst all of the refugees from Holmes that Emperor George was desperate for Harry’s blood — for his lands, his riches, and for his head on a spike. But the coast was days away from the safety of Jinan’s high walls and Emperor George did not have friends here at King Yaser’s court. 

Or at least Harry had _thought_ so. 

But the simple facts of this murder attempt could not be denied. The fire had been set in the Princes’ rooms, but Zayn was not typically in their quarters at that hour. Anyone who had ever monitored Zayn and Harry’s activity would be quick to say so. Harry was the one who spent large amounts time locked away in his rooms, playing with his direwolf, reading, entertaining his friends, lazing about. If someone were to set a fire outside their doors on any random afternoon, the assumption would be that _Harry_ was the Prince sitting inside, not Zayn.

Harry should be the one lying in bed with burned arms. Not Zayn. 

“Can you tell me what happened?” Harry asked. “Why were you in our rooms?”

Zayn raised a bandaged hand and scratched at his beard. It was jarring, the dark scruff against his jaw juxtaposed against the fair blonde hair that was now growing out of his scalp. “I was looking for you,” Zayn said. “I looked around in the rooms and couldn’t find you. That was when I started to smell the smoke. I went back to the main door but it was hot to the touch — I couldn’t get out.”

Harry bit at his bottom lip. It was terrifying how easily his mind supplied the images — Zayn peering through each of their doors, sighing to himself in minor annoyance as he continued his search. His hazel eyes widening and then narrowing at the scent of burning wood. How his face transformed from calmness to absolute panic once he realized he was trapped.

“The fire — it must’ve been some sort of magic,” Zayn said. “One minute I was near the door, the next my robes had caught flame and I was choking on the smoke. I dropped and tried to roll so the flames went out, but I only got fire on the rugs. I — I didn’t know what to do. But then Rebecca was there.”

Harry sucked in a breath. He should’ve known that Rebecca was the one to save Zayn. She always seemed to be close, doing strange, secretive tasks on Zayn’s behalf. “ _I swore my life to his service_ ,” she’d said once. She probably knew the very moment flames began to engulf the palace.

“She was panicking,” Zayn continued. His voice had taken on that faraway quality of a storyteller, almost like he was reliving that afternoon. Harry placed his hand over Zayn’s blanketed thigh and gave him a squeeze. “I’d never seen her like that before. She did something to put out the flames on my clothes and I think she tried something else — some other spell. It felt like a great wind went over me and I could feel it wash over my hair like rainwater. But she started cursing. The next thing I knew, I was standing four levels down, a floor above the exit to the gardens. That’s where Louis and Matty found me. They led me out.”

Harry poured Zayn another glass of water and propped him up once more so he could drink. “The failed spell — is that what’s responsible for the blonde hair?”

“I think so,” Zayn answered after taking a long gulp and gesturing for Harry to place the goblet back on his bedside table. “But I haven’t seen her since the fire, so I haven’t been able to ask. How are the children?”

Harry blinked, surprised that Zayn had even thought to ask. “Joshua and Sarah?”

“Are there other children I don’t know about?” Zayn asked, half teasingly and half wearily. “Yes. Joshua and Sarah. Where are they? I haven’t seen them either.”

“With Kevin, Eleanor, and their servants, I expect,” Harry said. “Or with your mother and the Princesses. I — I’ve hardly seen them. I’ve been very distracted. Worrying about you, and then all of this with your father and Tomlinson — ”

“I’m not passing any judgements,” Zayn interrupted. “I’m sure they are safe. I was merely curious.” Zayn fell silent for a few moments, leaning against the mattress and sighing. “Where were you when the fire started?”

“In the gardens with Joshua and Sarah,” Harry said. “We could smell the fire and see that the blaze was coming from our rooms. I panicked.”

Zayn made a low, angry noise, something akin to the angry hiss of a cat. “Did the children see me? Like — like _this_?”

“Burned?” Harry licked his lips. “I — I’m not sure. I told Eleanor to keep them away.”

“I hope they didn’t,” Zayn said. “It’s — this is a scary thing for a child.”

“They’re stronger and more clever than most children,” Harry said. “Especially Sarah. She’s already learning how to read. They both think the world of you.” Harry paused before leaning in closer to Zayn. “They’re calling you a Targaryen out in the city, you know. There are already tales about how you survived the fire. Zayn the Unburnt Prince. Zayn the Targaryen.”

Zayn snorted. “That’s stupid. Don’t people know their histories? Targaryens aren’t fireproof.”

“Neither are you,” Harry answered, gesturing at Zayn’s burns. “But you have survived and now you have blonde hair. It’s a natural connection to make. Imagine what else they would say if they knew you had dragons growing strong along the coast.”

Zayn hummed, clearly unconvinced. “I want you to stay close to Kevin at all times,” he said. “These are dark times, but that does not mean we should be foolish.”

“And?” Harry prompted. “What else do you desire of me?”

“Return to court and keep a close eye on everyone,” Zayn replied. “Most will be talking. See who isn’t.”

It was the first time Zayn had presented Harry with a discrete task. Harry did not want to let him down. He wouldn’t.

Harry pressed to a kiss to Zayn’s bandaged hands and stood. He turned to leave but Zayn cleared his throat and looked up at Harry expectantly, hazel eyes wide and hopeful.

“Yes, love?” 

“Is that all I get?” Zayn asked. His tone sounded mild as though he were ribbing Harry, but Harry could also see a glimmer of real hurt and disappointment in his eyes. “A kiss to my hands?”

Harry chuckled in surprise before gesturing at Zayn’s bandaged form. “You’re hurt,” Harry said. “I’m clumsy. I — I don’t want to accidentally cause you any additional harm.”

“I’m not made of glass,” Zayn scoffed. “One of the best healers in the kingdom is tending to my every beck and call. And last I checked, my lips were perfectly fine.”

“Zayn — ”

Zayn shook his head. “Please don’t make me beg, Harry. All I’ve done is dream of you.”

Harry moved back to the seat at Zayn’s side. Harry was still scared for Zayn, more worried than he had ever been for another person, but Harry could only imagine how terrified Zayn was underneath all of the scheming and bravado. Zayn was the one who battled the flames. And Zayn was the one who woke up, in pain and disoriented, asking for his husband. Asking for hours. Zayn needed the reassurance of Harry’s presence right now. Who was Harry to deny him?

So Harry touched his husband, held his hands, and murmured that everything was going to be all right. Harry swept Zayn’s blonde fringe out of his eyes and caressed his cheek, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to Zayn’s lips. He hummed the same old songs he sang to Joshua until Zayn’s eyes grew heavy and closed, and then he watched Zayn’s chest expand and contract with his slow, sleepy breathing.

Eventually, Harry stood and made his way out of Zayn’s room. When he returned to his own quarters, it was to pack his things. He was ready to return to the castle first thing in the morning.

 

Harry could still remember how people first described Zayn to him. Bookish. Shy. Generous. Beautiful. What people frequently omitted in their descriptions of the young Prince was his perceptiveness. There was not much that Zayn missed.

The same could not be said of Harry. He was temperamental and easily distracted. He liked pretty things, art, and trinkets. The newest and the best. When Harry was uninterested in the subject, there was much that he missed or overlooked. But now that he had to be Zayn’s eyes and ears, Harry found himself noticing far more at court than he ever had.

Harry and the children returned to the castle along with Queen Trisha and the Princesses. The procession became something akin to a parade. Their royal carriages followed the weaving trail from the Calder estate, through narrow streets and the marketplace, before finally culminating at the palace. City folk came out to greet them, calling out for the health and prosperity of the royal family, but Harry was not in the mood to be seen. Instead, he sat brooding with Joshua in his lap, scolding Sarah whenever she attempted to peek through the drawn curtains. 

That night, Harry attended dinner in the main dining hall, seated in a place of honor at the Queen’s side. It was a more subdued affair than normal, many noblemen taking the meal in their private quarters since the Queen had brought in a large amount of workers from outside of the city to begin repairing Zayn and Harry’s rooms. 

It was strange how differently King Yaser and Queen Trisha were treating Harry. When Harry was still in the Calder estate, King Yaser maintained a courteous distance, sending all of his messages through trusted servants and knights. Conversely, Queen Trisha insisted upon visiting Harry, Joshua, and Sarah whenever she wasn’t keeping watch at Zayn’s bedside, and on the morning of their departure she helped Harry and the children load into the carriages on their way back to the palace. Harry wasn’t sure what to make of it. Harry thought it might be naivety to wonder whether Queen Trisha believed in Harry’s innocence, whereas the King still maintained a fair level of skepticism. 

Zayn’s friends approached Harry’s table throughout dinner. They were loud and overly generous in their condolences, including the ones who lived outside of the capital but had returned to Jinan in this moment of crisis and uncertainty. Harry welcomed all of their notes and expressions of affection and good will and graciously invited them to a dinner later in the week, a gathering out on the castle grounds.

 

The dinner was Niall’s idea. Harry had met with Niall and Nick as soon as he returned to the castle and put Joshua down for a nap, and Niall proposed the dinner as a way to get several people in one place and monitor their reactions. Harry put him in charge of the invitations and organization and Niall did a spectacular job, compiling a menu and asking servants to set up a series of tables in the midst of the mazes. They strung lights amongst the hedges and brought out courses of salads, braised beef and pears, and chocolate cakes.

Jelena — a tall, beautiful blonde woman who preferred to go by the name Gigi — seemed to be the most sincere of the newcomers. She lived in the hinterlands previously ruled by Princess Edwards and had been searching for the missing chieftain before deciding to make her way to Jinan. After a few glasses of wine, Nick’s friend Aimee insinuated that Gigi was mainly drawn to Jinan because a wealthy merchant’s daughter named Kendall also lived within the capital. Gigi did not dispute the claim, only smiled coyly, and suddenly Gigi became _a lot_ more interesting to Harry.

Zayn’s other friends Justin and Shahid seemed as wary of Harry as he was of them, but they were both exceedingly polite throughout the night. Justin was even nice enough to not call Harry a whore this go around, although he did spend most of the evening talking quietly with Louis and Eleanor. Harry thought of Kevin’s warnings about the Calder family and wondered if Justin, Louis, and Eleanor were the three at court he should be most suspicious of.

Harry was not sure how Zayn knew Shahid. Shahid was not a landed gentleman, and he was not a merchant, either, but it was obvious that he was wealthy. He wore thick gold rings on his fingers and spoke of horses and homes and beautiful women he had courted. Niall was seated at Harry’s side, and he seemed convinced that Shahid had some sort of illicit dealings, perhaps as a black market trader. However the man came about his money, the word around court was that Louis and Shahid hated each other, and Harry noticed that Louis, Taylor, and Matty all avoided the man throughout the night.

 

Dinner did not become interesting until the food was cleared and they were all sitting underneath the stars with nothing but their wine. The distant rabble from beyond the castle gates had waned throughout the day as people left the market and returned to their homes or inns, the night humming with music from a guitar Niall had somehow produced. 

For a moment Harry closed his eyes and sunk into the moment. He was clean and his belly was full. There was music and lightness and laughter. He was warm and safe and surrounded by friends.

When Harry opened his eyes again, it was to consider the black, hulking ruins that were once his and Zayn’s rooms. Even at dusk, they were a glaring blemish against the rest of the castle. Soldiers had begun cleaning through the rubble, but Harry was told little was salvageable. Harry had asked to go through the rooms himself, just in case there was something there the men would overlook, but his request had been denied.

Looking upon the castle reminded Harry that this world was one full of intrigue and illusion. Yes, he was not hungry, and yes, he had riches beyond his comprehension. But someone close to him and Zayn — perhaps even someone here at dinner with him tonight — wanted him dead. If they had struck on any other day, they might have succeeded.

Harry stood at the head of the table and the rest of his guests gradually fell silent. Harry looked around them, at Nick and Aimee and Niall, at Liam and Louis and Eleanor, at Matty and Taylor, at Justin and his wife, at Shahid and Gigi. 

“Thank you all for gracing me with your company tonight,” Harry said. “As you are all aware, this past fortnight has been a very hard time for me, one where I have had to rely on my friends and family. And so I thank you all for providing companionship and understanding.”

At the opposite end of the table, Louis wrapped his fingers around his goblet and clenched the stem. Eleanor reached over him and laid two fingers over his wrist, but it did nothing to dispel the tension from his body. Harry wondered why she even bothered.

“I shall tell Prince Zayn all about your conviviality in this great time of need,” Harry continued, reaching for his own goblet. “And in this spirit, I would like to propose a toast. To friends old and new, and to the health of our future King. May the gods look down on Prince Zayn and protect him.”

Harry knew that Louis had been drinking all night. He’d done his best to watch everyone’s alcohol content very closely. Louis did not usually indulge in such behaviors, but he had been drinking heavily in the days since Zayn’s injury. 

Louis could only hold his tongue for so long — Harry knew this. And so Harry was unsurprised when Louis scoffed and muttered something underneath his breath. Eleanor shushed him, looking embarrassed, but Justin snickered. Gigi pursed her lips and glared. Taylor and Matty both rolled their eyes. Shahid hardly gave any indication that Louis existed at all.

“Did I say something humorous, Tomlinson?” Harry asked innocently. 

“Your Highness, you already know my thoughts on you and what you call humor,” Louis said.

“Not all of our guests are so well-informed. Perhaps you would like to enlighten them?”

“Louis,” Eleanor hissed. “Don’t you dare.”

Louis completely ignored her. “You’re such a stupid little boy,” Louis spat, his words slurred. “Stupid spoiled child thinks one day he can be king. Better men than you cut themselves on the Iron Throne. And a better man than me would push you down on one of its swords for what you’ve done to Zayn.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. Harry had not expected Louis to actually threaten and insult him in front of everyone. But Louis was drunk _and_ stupid. “How dare you — ”

“Oh _shut up_ ,” Louis interrupted. “I’m sick of having to pretend as though this behavior is endearing. It was for a month — maybe two. And I know the loss of your mother has scarred you more than you let on. But you’re also a selfish, self-serving, idiot of a boy. It’s because of you that Zayn is lying in there. You cannot convince me that this wasn’t your treason, your design.”

A surprised murmur spread throughout the table but Harry ignored it. “Yes, and you have already presented me with all of your so-called evidence, and still I stand here before you. There is nothing — I repeat _nothing_ — to tie me to the fire. How do I get it through your thick skull that I’m not guilty of this heinous crime?”

There was a moment right after Harry spoke where he wanted to take the words back, but he’d already gone this far. He’d spoken in front of everyone. Louis was a nuisance and a menace and an idiot, but Louis was also a well of knowledge. He knew the manipulations of court better than anyone. Harry was loath to admit it, but he needed Louis’ help. It would be easier to find the traitor at court with his assistance.

Louis smiled, his eyes glittering mischievously. “They say if you eat a heart and are of a pure heart yourself, you gain courage,” Louis said. “Otherwise you choke on your own ambition.”

Eleanor stood from her seat and threw her napkin down on the table. “You’re a simpleton and an embarrassment,” she spat at her betrothed. Then she turned and stalked back towards the castle.

Harry watched her go before admitting, “I’m not familiar with this expression.”

Louis’ grin only intensified. “You wouldn’t be. It’s something they say in the mountains and in Abbas. But what about you?”

“Are you asking me if I’m willing to eat a heart?” Harry asked, licking over his lips.

“A horse heart,” Louis clarified. “I’m sure there’s an old mare somewhere on these grounds. Would you eat it to prove yourself?”

Harry took a deep breath and reminded himself that he’d already come this far. Niall was tugging insistently at Harry’s sleeve, but Harry couldn’t back down. Not in front of everyone. Not when Harry still needed Louis’ help. “Is that what it would take to convince you — all of you — of my innocence?”

Louis tilted his head, slow and considering. “Perhaps.”

That was good enough. “I’ll do it,” Harry said. And then he lifted his goblet and toasted to it.

 

Louis set the date for the following week. In the meantime, Harry quietly prepared himself for this newest task. Harry had heard of similar rituals in Holmes and beyond. Across the sea, Harry had heard of Dothraki women who ate hearts to fortify the children in their wombs, and people from the wild North often swore allegiances by consuming raw flesh and blood. 

Harry and the children were staying in the Queen’s extra rooms since his and Zayn’s were completely destroyed, but Harry talked Kevin into stealing from the kitchen and discretely bringing his findings to Harry’s temporary quarters. Harry strengthened his stomach by eating raw chicken breasts and biting into swine hearts that were still warm to the touch. 

The trick Harry attempted to master was learning how to eat the meat without choking or vomiting. It didn’t taste good — such muscle was frequently tough and chewy — and the stench of blood seemed permanently seared into Harry’s fingers, but Harry was willing to do whatever it took to prove his commitment. A horse heart was significantly bigger than a chicken or a pig’s, but Harry had confidence in himself. He would win back Louis’ good will, prove to court that he was not to be trifled with, and find the traitor in his midst.

 

Two days before the ceremony, Harry summoned a carriage and returned to the Calder home to see Zayn. The King was still staying at the Calder estate and holding all of his meetings there, but almost everyone else had returned to the palace and resumed their duties there amidst significantly increased security. Harry could only imagine how lonely Zayn was as he laid in bed day after day and waited for his body to heal itself.

Harry brought Joshua with him. He had invited Sarah to come along as well, but Harry had the distinct impression that the girl did not know how to behave around Zayn, and so he did not press the matter when she insisted that she would rather stay in the castle and play with Princess Safaa instead. Harry wasn’t sure how much Sarah knew about royal recognition and lines of succession, but Eleanor and the nannies frequently referred to Joshua as “the little Prince,” and were much more effusive in their praise for the boy than they were for Sarah. Harry would not be surprised if Sarah knew that Zayn recognized her brother as his child, but did not extend the same courtesy for her.

Zayn was still in the same bedroom Harry had last seen him in, but he already looked far healthier than Harry last remembered him. He was sitting upright and reading, a think blanket pooled around his waist. His hair was thick and white-blonde, and the skin on his arms and hands was still red and inflamed, but most of his blistering had passed. There were worse burns on his legs and feet, and the magi was insistent that there would be some scarring particularly around his thighs, but the wounds would heal in good time.

In truth, Zayn was very lucky. The burns had been bad, but things could have been far, far worse.

“Hello, my love,” Harry said by way of greeting, encouraging Joshua to wave where he was sitting on Harry’s hip.

Zayn startled and looked up from his reading, smiling at the sight of Harry and Joshua. His grin was so wide it seemingly split his face in two. 

“Why, hello, there,” Zayn said, putting his book on his bedside table. Harry took the seat at Zayn’s side, juggling Joshua from his hip to his lap. Zayn hesitated for a moment, looking intently between Harry and Joshua, but then he leaned over and plucked the baby from Harry’s lap and positioned the boy in his own.

“Zayn,” Harry began, a scolding at the tip of his tongue, but Joshua had already squealed with delight and smacked Zayn excitedly in the face. Zayn blinked and Harry sighed. “Zayn, he’s a baby. He doesn’t know you’re hurt — ”

“Be quiet,” Zayn responded, bouncing Joshua on the bed. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bouncing him on top of your legs,” Harry pointed out. “Your _burned_ legs that are still _healing_.”

“You’re being a spoilsport,” Zayn complained, still bouncing Joshua to the baby’s obvious and undisguised delight. “I haven’t seen Joshua and I have been bored out of my mind. Do you know how many of these books I’ve been forced to read? And do you know how many of them are actually interesting? Let me have my fun.”

Harry shrugged and sat back in his seat, fanning his fingers over his face to hide his grin. It was so nice seeing Zayn and Joshua together. Zayn’s hands, still bandaged, were firm around Joshua’s tiny waist, and the baby squealed and drooled all over himself, absolutely thrilled to be the focus of Zayn’s undivided attention. 

To be fair, Joshua was a fairly agreeable baby to begin with. He rarely cried around Harry, and he smiled often. But Joshua did seem to light up around Zayn, and Zayn seemed equally pleased to play with the child. Watching them together felt right, like everything was finally starting to lock into place. 

“How’s my mother?” Zayn asked, now lifting Joshua over his head and trying to avoid the baby’s spittle where it was dribbling down his chin. “How is everyone at court?”

Harry frowned. “Your mother is fine. Worried about you and your sisters, but fine. And court is — it’s — uh.”

Zayn turned to look at Harry sharply even though he was still holding Joshua up in the air. “What have you done now?”

“Who’s to say I’ve done anything?” Harry asked testily. 

“I know you,” Zayn replied. “You brought the baby here to distract me while you were telling me something. So go ahead. Tell me.”

Harry took a deep breath and Zayn scowled even more deeply. “I may have agreed to something,” Harry said. “Something Tomlinson suggested.”

Zayn frowned again and brought Joshua to sit on his lap. Joshua was still giggling to himself and Zayn began playing with his feet, wiggling Joshua’s toes while the baby slapped at Zayn’s fingers. “Tell me everything.”

“Several people from outside of Jinan have been coming to the capital,” Harry said. “Justin Bieber. A man named Shahid. Gigi Hadid. I’ve met all of them. I’ve heard that they are all your friends.”

“Justin used to live at court,” Zayn began. “He left in the weeks after our engagement — after the war ended. He had very strong ideas about Holmes and its people so I suggested he return home to avoid conflict with you and your countrymen. Shahid and I had a falling out as well. Gigi and I are still friends. She writes every so often.”

“How do you know her?”

Zayn said, “When my father first started thinking about breaking my engagement to Perrie, Gigi’s name was one of the first that came up. She lives far outside of the capital so it would’ve been a good match — a real way to bring the conquered territories and Jinan together. She lived at court for a year while my family tried to figure her out, but for whatever reason it didn’t work out and she went back home.”

“But you don’t love her,” Harry said.

Zayn rolled his eyes. “I love her as a _friend_ , Harry. You have nothing to worry about.”

Harry hummed, not entirely convinced. “Well, she is very nice.”

“You’re dancing around whatever the most important thing is,” Zayn said. 

“Yes,” Harry admitted. “Because I’m not sure how you will react.”

Zayn cocked his head. “Did it have something to do with Gigi or any of the newcomers?”

“No. It was Tomlinson.” Harry bit at his bottom lip and sighed. “Niall suggested that we have a dinner to get to know everyone. Tomlinson got very, very drunk. He was being very cruel and very disrespectful. And — ah. He said that he wanted to test me, make sure I wasn’t the one who hurt you, so he challenged me to eat a horse heart. And I agreed.”

Harry was not sure what he was expecting Zayn’s reaction to be. Probably a lot of shouting and scolding. But Harry certainly did not expect Zayn’s long, vacant gaze. Zayn did not even look judgmental. He just stared at Harry, sharp and thoughtfully.

“Zayn?” Harry asked tentatively. “Say something, please.”

Zayn opened his mouth and shut it again. Joshua made a low, dissatisfied noise now that he was no longer the focus of Zayn’s attention, so Zayn began playing with him again, tickling his stomach and making him laugh.

“I’ve been practicing,” Harry continued, suddenly as desperate for Zayn’s approval as Joshua had been. “I remember hearing about similar ceremonies. It doesn’t matter how long it takes you to complete, but I know that it’s important that you can’t choke or vomit.”

“Yes,” Zayn acknowledged, his eyes focused on Joshua. “Although why in the world you would agree to go along with something this stupid is beyond me.”

“He challenged me,” Harry said, wounded. “He was calling me a craven in front of everyone — ”

“Then you challenge him to the same task,” Zayn interrupted. “Turn things around on him. He has as much reason to set me on fire as you do. _God_ , Harry. Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“I’m going to eat a horse heart,” Harry said. “And then Tomlinson will see that I’m not the one who did this to you and he’ll help me find out who it is — ”

“That’s not what I want, Harry,” Zayn said. He sat Joshua back in his lap and rubbed his temple with his hands. “Don’t you get it? I asked you to keep an eye out for me. _Only you_. I didn’t tell you to ask Louis for help.”

“You don’t trust Tomlinson?” Harry sputtered. “But he’s your brother.”

“And he was still in the castle long after everyone else,” Zayn pointed out. “He and Matty. Why?”

“They were looking for you.”

“Maybe,” Zayn agreed. “Maybe not. Louis hasn’t come to see me since the fire, and Matty has also kept his distance. And now Louis has talked you into this absurdity. I don’t like this, Harry. I don’t trust it.”

“Then trust me,” Harry said. “Trust that I can do this.”

“You don’t even know what you’re getting into,” Zayn said. “There’s old magic attached to these ceremonies. Khaleesi Daenerys ate a horse heart when she was pregnant with the Dothraki’s baby and then her husband died — and her baby.”

Harry shook his head. He wasn’t great at his histories, but he remembered the basics. “But that wasn’t because she ate the horse heart. That was because the old witch betrayed her.”

“Still,” Zayn protested. “Consuming the heart of a stallion may give you one as well, but that’s a double-edged sword. Either you become as strong and pure as the horse, or you turn into a beast. That’s what this ceremony is all about, and that’s what I’m sure Louis did not tell you when he challenged you to complete it.”

Harry fell quiet for a moment, mulling Zayn’s words over. It did seem like a fine line between being as strong and willful as an animal and descending into a beast’s madness, but Harry was willing to make the gamble. He had to. He couldn’t go back on his word now. 

“Maybe something like this is what I need in order for your court to take me seriously,” Harry said.

“Do you need them to?” Zayn asked. “I thought there was benefit in playing the part of the sheep.”

“I’m tired of it,” Harry confided. “I know that I do silly, rash things, but I want people to realize that I’m more than your trinket. I have a will of my own.”

“But you don’t have to do something like this in order to prove that point,” Zayn said. 

“I don’t,” Harry agreed. “But I want to. Zayn. _Please_. If you don’t agree with me, at least tell me you understand.”

Zayn fell silent. Joshua was still cradled in his arms, clapping against Zayn’s chest with his chubby hands. Cradled together like this, Joshua looked like he was Zayn’s natural child. Joshua was getting tanner and tanner by the day, although his hair was still fair and blonde and his eyes were warm flecks of amber and gold. Joshua looked like the child Zayn might have had if he had wed the warrior princess, or Taylor, or even Gigi. But Joshua was not any of those girls’ son — he was Harry’s. Harry and Zayn’s.

“I don’t agree with it,” Zayn said. “I — I think it’s foolish and unnecessary, and I think you are needlessly putting yourself in danger, thrusting yourself into something you don’t entirely understand. But I know why you feel like you must. Like you should.”

Harry smiled at Zayn, private and hesitant. “Thank you, love.”

“Please don’t die,” Zayn said, eyes sweet and wide when he turned to meet Harry’s. “It’s rare that it happens but — I need you. So promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise,” Harry answered, leaning across the bed to give both Joshua and Zayn a kiss.

 

Louis was insistent that the ceremony could not occur on the castle grounds, so around sunset on a breezy, uneventful day, Harry and Kevin ventured to a manor owned by one of Gigi’s kinsmen. A pretty girl with long, brown hair and kind eyes who introduced herself as Kendall welcomed them at the door and led them through a labyrinth of hallways. Harry lost track of the twists and turns, forcing himself not to gawk as they passed old oil paintings and what seemed like an endless number of closed doors. 

Finally they made their way to a grassy knoll at the back of the estate. The others had already arrived and were standing before a table, loitering about and tittering anxiously. After Harry’s conversation with Zayn, he could understand why. For many of them, this ceremony reminded them of false gods and uncivilized society. It made them think of men becoming beasts and taking on their attributes. And if Harry were to prove untrue, he would choke on his falseness and die. None of them would really want to admit to witnessing the death of a Prince, even if he did prove to be a murderer.

“You do not have to do this,” Kevin whispered, earnest as ever. “This is madness. The Duke — ”

“You can’t talk me out of this,” Harry insisted. Kevin had attempted periodically throughout the week, even as he would dutifully return with another raw heart for Harry to take with his tea. Harry had only vomited once, standing over his bed pot with tears in his eyes and blood coating his tongue. But his stomach and will had only fortified since. Harry could do this.

Kevin groaned and skulked into the shadows. Harry pasted on a smile and walked to the table where all of the others were congregated. There was a goblet of water, a giant knife, and a bowl, the contents of which gleamed red underneath the sinking sun.

“Do I not get a bib and fork?” Harry asked.

“I should think your hands and teeth will suffice,” Louis replied from where he was standing toward the front. He seemed more sober than he had in days, his eyes cruel and judgmental.

“I think I agree,” Harry said. 

And without any pomp, Harry reached into the bowl with both hands and lifted the heart to his mouth. It was big, about the size of a child’s ball, and heavy, too. Harry’s stomach gave a rumble. He was _hungry_. He had fasted all day in the hope that it would make this easier, and for a moment his mouth actually salivated. He felt like some sort of beast, like Tessa, his entire world shrinking to encompass the meat in his hands, the expectation of a feast. 

The first bite spurt blood down Harry’s throat and coated his lips with red. The others gasped and swore as Harry licked at his coppery lips and continued unperturbed. The horse’s heart was tough, chewy, and not particularly tasty, and as Harry forced himself to eat, bits of it lodged stubbornly in between his teeth. But it was not much different than the swine flesh he forced himself to eat, and the chicken he had consumed as well.

Congealed blood periodically spurt out of the muscle, coating Harry’s hands and face with gore, as well as his tongue. No matter how much Harry swallowed, the foul taste lingered, thick and chunky. But Harry dutifully ripped, chewed, and swallowed, taking it piece by piece, chamber by chamber, and not allowing himself to consider the small crowd of horrified noblemen that surrounded him, hypnotized by his every move. 

The heart felt heavy in Harry’s stomach, and it took everything in his power not to retch after each bite. But instead of contemplating what he was eating, Harry thought of Joshua and how the little boy seemed impervious to all of the turmoil happening around him. He thought of Sarah learning to read and write and excitedly showing Harry her progress. He thought of Zayn and wondered what he would say if he could see Harry right now. Harry wondered if Zayn would be cursing and turning away like his countrymen, or if he would be rapt and aroused, mesmerized by the blood on Harry’s lips.

Harry was good to his word. It was slow-moving work, Harry having to stop periodically to put bits of meat back in the bowl so he could lean on the rim and breathe. He attempted to wipe the blood off his face only to further smear carnage all over his robes, on his hands and face and neck. 

By the time he was forcing down the last bite of tough, spongy meat, the sunset-streaked sky had given way to darkness, and he was sure he looked like something out of a nightmare. Like a true beast, or a demon. He had never felt more powerful and terrifying than he did in this moment, and all he’d done was eaten. Harry gave his fingers a lick and felt the tiny crowd before him collectively shudder.

_The night is indeed dark and full of terrors_ , Harry thought as he swallowed the last bite and looked out at the crowd in front of him. He smiled at his countrymen Niall, Nick, Liam, and Aimee. He watched Taylor, Matty, Eleanor, and Louis — those he still could not trust even after months and months of knowing each other. And then, finally, he turned his eyes on the newcomers, on Gigi, Shahid, and Justin. All of their eyes were wide in horror, or fear, or grudging respect. It was a heady feeling, and one Harry wanted to see on their faces all of the time. 

_The night is dark and full of terrors,_ Harry thought, _and I am every single one of them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Fears? Castigations?
> 
> It only gets worse from here.


	20. Part Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the next week, Harry dreamed of blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is no April Fool's joke - I legitimately was sitting on another chapter.
> 
> Thank you, Camie, for the [amazing edit for this chapter](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/post/142068659771/chase-the-devil-part-nineteen-for-the-next-week)! And thanks, as always, to my betas for reading everything over.

For the next week, Harry dreamed of blood. 

Blood on his hands, a thick coat on his digits, caking underneath his nails. Blood on his face, dripping down the length of his neck, smeared across his lips. Blood staining his teeth and soaking his tongue, viscous, pulsing, and sweet. It didn’t taste like the congealed blood of the horse heart and he wasn’t sure whether it was his own or someone else’s. He was covered in gore with absolutely no explanation as to why. But for a week of dreams, of nightmares, he was alone in the empty shell of his castle, and he was not afraid. 

It was unlike Harry’s existence when he was awake. His court might not trust him anymore, if they ever had, but they knew Harry needed to be protected. He was never alone, couldn’t be when Emperor George’s assassins were lurking in the shadows outside of the capital. 

But outside of Kevin and his children, Harry did not have many true companions. He knew that the ceremony frightened many of his and Zayn’s friends, which was his intention, but now most of them were giving him a wide berth. This included Nick and Niall, both of whom were now inexplicably busy whenever Harry asked them over for tea. Kevin hypothesized that Nick and Niall were trying to turn the others over to Harry’s side and were overwhelmed by the task, but Harry was not so sure. Harry’s countrymen had seemed as horrified by his actions as the others.

Fortunately enough, Louis had stopped condemning Harry in public. According to Kevin and Eleanor, Louis was no longer certain that Harry was behind the fire, and he had even started defending Harry’s honor whenever his name came up in conversation. So if there was one positive to arrive from the heart ceremony, Harry at least had _that_.

So for all of his scheming and manipulations, Harry felt like a prisoner in a golden cage. King Yaser still seemed wary of his son-in-law, and now that Harry and the children were staying in the Queen’s quarters, Harry knew Queen Trisha was reporting on his movements to her husband. Harry harbored the Queen no ill will for this — he would do the same if he were in her shoes. 

Zayn remained at the Calder estate, recovering from his burns, and King Yaser limited how frequently Harry could journey uphill to see him, much to Harry and Zayn’s mutual chagrin. Harry felt like he had very little to do besides tend to the children and pine for his husband. 

Whenever he did deign to leave his rooms, murmurs followed. Kevin had hesitantly reported unsavory rumors that were beginning to circulate around court regarding Joshua and Sarah, including one that alleged the two children were Harry’s illegitimate children, freshly arrived from Holmes. It seemed cruel that people were dragging two children’s names through the mud just to cast another aspersion against Harry’s character. Harry didn’t care that they called him a whore, that they said he had nothing to offer Zayn beside his cock, but the children were innocents. It was clearly too much to ask that they be left out of court politics. 

Ultimately, Harry decided to keep to his rooms. He rarely entertained visitors. He looked after his children and borrowed books from the university. He visited Tessa and made plans to take her hunting out in the countryside bordering the capital. And, somehow, he avoided the urge to drink dreamless sleep potions every night, even though he was plagued by troubling dreams.

But in his nightmares, Harry could explore freely, boots echoing in the deserted hallways. He climbed winding staircases and pushed open doors, and no matter where he went, he found no one. There was no one to taunt him, no one to lie to, no one he had to fear. There was no one at all, not until he was before his and Zayn’s old rooms.

There Harry found a fire, as leaping and terrifying as it had been in real life. Zayn stood in the midst of the blaze, his eyes the same shade as the inferno and his hair that Targaryen silvery blonde, a jarring contrast against the warm tan of his skin. He was wearing the same robes he’d married Harry in, the purple and silver colors of his family’s house, but his crown looked nothing like any Harry had seen Zayn wear before. The crown nestled atop Zayn’s head seemed almost like it was made of Valyrian steel, the flare of the fire catching on the rippling metal. 

Zayn stood before Harry looking like an angel, like a demon, like ice and fire, like the beginning of the world and the end. He reached for Harry with burned fingertips, and Harry fell into him with a moan, hypnotized by Zayn’s beauty as always. When Zayn touched Harry’s face, hands caressing the gore drying on Harry’s cheeks, the blood steamed and somehow fell away.

“I don’t understand,” Harry said, his voice echoing. He wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement.

“It’s not your blood,” dream-Zayn replied, providing the same response every night for a week. “It’s theirs.”

Harry always opened his mouth, poised to ask for clarification, but it never came. Joshua would cry, or Kevin shook Harry awake, or the rays of a long summer’s day crept through the slant of an open window. 

But on the seventh morning, a woman’s shout shattered Harry’s dream and sent him sitting upright in his bed.

 

There was a commotion by the stables. Harry dressed hastily and followed the sounds, ignoring the Queen’s servants and Kevin’s protestations as he made his way out of the castle. It was barely dawn, the horizon streaked orange and yellow like a daylily. And save for the yelling coming from the stables, the castle was blissfully, miraculously still.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Louis was partially to be blamed for the racket. He was standing before the closed stable doors, face blanched as he stared at a woman with blonde hair and a tear-streaked face. The woman was dressed like a peasant in a simple dress and apron. Eleanor and Liam were present as well, each regarding Louis carefully as the blonde woman wiped the wetness from her face.

And then, standing behind the folds of the woman’s dress, was a young boy with brown hair and light colored eyes. He was hardly older than Joshua, seemingly just developed enough to walk without assistance. Harry stopped right by the stable and stared at the little boy, at his tiny hands and his nervous eyes. 

The child looked so familiar Harry felt his breath come up short. 

None of the people standing before Harry seemed to hear him.

“I didn’t want to make trouble, I really didn’t,” the blonde woman was saying.

“If you knew your place, you wouldn’t have shown up at court unannounced,” Eleanor hissed. Now that Harry focused his attention on her, he noticed that Eleanor’s cheeks were flushed and her hands were balled into fists. Typically, Eleanor was calm and demure, the epitome of composure. Harry had never seen her so visibly upset before. “If you knew your place, you wouldn’t have come to make trouble with _my_ betrothed — ”

“I never,” the blonde woman interrupted. “I didn’t even _know_ — ”

“Just like you don’t know that this boy is Duke Tomlinson’s son,” Liam said. “That’s a bold claim to make, you must see that.”

“Yes,” Eleanor said, glancing uneasily at Liam. Liam returned her gaze, his normally warm brown eyes as equally apprehensive. Harry wondered what it must be like, for the future Duchess and the Duke’s lower-class lover to find common ground. That moment of connection must have felt unbelievably strange. “What proof do you have to substantiate your claim?”

“Substantiate?” the blonde woman repeated weakly, glancing beseechingly at Louis. She probably had never even heard the word before. “I — Louis — I mean the Duke — we — ”

Eleanor humphed triumphantly and crossed her arms over her chest. “I would think that if you can do the deed, you can speak on it as well.”

“Leave the girl alone,” Louis snapped. “It — it isn’t a bold claim, Eleanor.” 

Louis wiped a hand over his face and smiled at Liam weakly. Liam blinked at Louis, face vacant but polite, and turned away. 

“What are you talking about?” Eleanor rasped. Her eyes were shiny and wet and her lips gave a small, bitter twist. If Harry didn’t know any better, if he didn’t know how much Eleanor detested Louis and how equally the sentiment was returned, he would think that he was watching her heart break. “ _Louis_ — ”

“The boy is mine,” Louis said. “He’s my blood. She isn’t lying. I — I was _distracted_ and forgot to give her the coin I promised her. I told her she could always find me here at court if she needed me. I — I’m sorry.”

Liam crossed his arms over his chest and barked out a mirthless laugh. He pursed his lips and looked up, his eyes somehow locking onto Harry’s. Harry stared at the man who had protected him for years, who had crossed the wide sea with Harry and given up his life in Holmes on Harry’s behalf. For not the first time in recent moons, Harry found that he could not even begin to know what Liam was thinking. 

Eleanor twisted her engagement ring off her finger. She threw it off the stable door, turned, and made her way back into the castle, her skirt whipping her ankles in the summer breeze. Louis looked at the ring where it glistened against the grass and scooped it into his palm, almost like it was a little bug he was cajoling for his son’s benefit. Harry didn’t know Louis was capable of such delicacy and sentimentality.

Harry turned to look at Louis’ child. He took in his tiny hands and chubby cheeks, at his chestnut brown hair and light colored eyes. Harry wondered how Eleanor and Liam could look upon this boy and see anything _but_ Louis.

From somewhere inside of the stable, one of Zayn’s dogs gave a lonesome howl.

 

“I no longer consent to a marriage with Duke Tomlinson,” Eleanor said, her normally sweet, pink mouth set in a thin, cruel line. “Your Highness, I ask for your approval to break my betrothal and for your assistance in helping me find another appropriate husband.”

From looking at her, one would never know that Eleanor had just discovered that her betrothed had an affair with a girl from the marketplace and fathered an illegitimate child. She was wearing a hazy blue dress and her hair fell in soft tumbles down her back. Her cheeks were playfully flushed, her ring finger bare. She didn’t look like a woman in mourning of her relationship. She looked like a woman charmingly plotting her revenge.

Harry could appreciate that.

After leaving Louis, Liam, and the peasant woman by the stables, Eleanor returned to her rooms. According to Harry’s gossiping servants, she then spent the next few hours tossing all of the gifts she had received from Louis down the staircase, crying loudly, and causing quite the spectacle. Around midday she requested a meeting with Harry and Queen Trisha. The Queen readily agreed, and Eleanor arrived at the Queen’s tea room looking like something out of a tawdry daydream. The Queen served all of her usual treats and pastries, and the two women exchanged pleasantries before Eleanor set her tea down on the table with a sigh, her face hardening.

“Both Prince Zayn and King Yaser helped engineer your betrothal,” Queen Trisha said. “Your father also agreed to this arrangement. I understand that Duke Tomlinson’s actions have angered and upset you, but all three of those men will have to agree to the dissolution of the betrothal, as well as the Duke himself.”

“Tomlinson hates me,” Eleanor replied. “He has always made his distrust and dislike of me clear. Half of court knows the true nature of our relationship. I feel confident that he would agree to this dissolution. He would be pleased to be rid of me.”

“But can you say the same of your father?” Queen Trisha asked shrewdly. “And what of my husband, the King? You of all people know that this marriage was meant to guarantee long-lasting peace between Jinan and Abbas and re-establish trade and dialogue between the capital and the surrounding territories.”

Eleanor huffed. “Your Highness, Tomlinson’s presence and esteem at court is already enough to guarantee that Abbas won’t move against the crown. And his friendship with the Prince and the Healys is a bonus. Tomlinson is ambitious and there are other women at court who can offer him more.”

“And what of my son?” the Queen pressed. “Prince Zayn was so certain you and the Duke would be a love match. And what a couple you have been — Prince Zayn’s trusted companion and one of the fairest maids in Jinan, the only daughter from House Calder.”

Eleanor’s eyes flickered to consider Harry. For a moment, her eyes were ringed with fear, the very same fear Harry had seen on her face when he swallowed the last bite of horse heart. Harry and Eleanor had hardly spoken over the past week. Eleanor still arrived dutifully every morning to teach Sarah how to read and to play with Joshua, and every so often she chimed in with a choice piece of gossip, but otherwise she ignored Harry’s presence. Harry figured it was all for the best. He was cataloguing everyone’s reactions and planned to tell Zayn everything he’d observed. Hopefully Zayn would be able to make something of it.

“I had hoped Prince Harry would speak to his husband on my behalf,” Eleanor answered haltingly. “As I said, other beautiful maidens here at court would be more than happy to marry Duke Tomlinson. Lady Peazer or Lady Smith. Lady Hadid would guarantee closer ties between Abbas and the warrior tribes and perhaps re-open old trade routes. Even that merchant Jenner girl would be a good match if your aim was to restore communication between Abbas and the capital. I understand that she isn’t a noblewoman or landed gentry, but that hardly means anything to a man like Tomlinson. I would be most grateful to both of the young Princes if they attempted to engineer a match between Tomlinson and one of these Ladies.”

“You wish to illicit the assistance of the Princes and go directly against King Yaser in these trying times?” Queen Trisha asked, her tone ringing with disbelief. “My son is ill and Prince Harry’s attention is divided between tending to his husband and his young charges, as you well know. Both Prince Harry and Prince Zayn have other matters to concern themselves with. And to be frank, my Lady, you are not the first maiden to contend with her betrothed’s bastard child.”

Eleanor stared at Queen Trisha, her face long and baleful. “I apologize if I seem ungrateful, Your Highness. I — I had assumed that as another woman, you would be sympathetic to my plight.”

Queen Trisha smiled, her face sad and wise. “I am, dear. But I am also sympathetic to Duke Tomlinson’s cause, as I have walked in his shoes as well.”

Eleanor blinked and Harry found himself sitting straighter in his seat as well. Harry wondered whether Eleanor had remembered that Louis was the Queen’s bastard son before requesting this meeting.

“So you will not help me terminate this betrothal?” Eleanor asked.

“I am afraid I cannot help you,” the Queen said. “I must stand by what’s right for the kingdom first and foremost.”

Eleanor chewed on her lip and looked somewhere past Harry’s shoulder. For the first time, she looked as young and uncertain as she was, like a girl playing the part of a woman. Harry felt a pang of pity and shifted in his seat to hide his discomfort.

When Eleanor chanced a glance at the Queen again, she had restored her mask. Once more Eleanor’s face was cool and amiably impassive. She took a long breath and folded her hands in her lap, looking every inch the dainty Lady. “Then I suppose I shall have to pursue another course,” Eleanor said. “I have given the topic much thought, as you well know, Your Highness. Perhaps this is the moment where I finally dedicate my life — and my maidenhead — to the gods.”

Harry pursed his lips in confusion, but Queen Trisha leaned back in her seat with a wry smile on her face. “Are you quite sure, my dear?” 

“Wait,” Harry interrupted, his head spinning. For the first time in months, Harry felt like the lost little Prince from Holmes, the boy who was completely unprepared for a life in Jinan. “What’s happening?”

“I’m sure,” Eleanor said to the Queen, face hard and stubborn. “I am already serving Prince Joshua. I will dedicate my life to his religious education and moral protection and swear the vows before a host of gods and men. I love the little boy and a life of celibacy would be far superior to one of indebtedness to Duke Tomlinson.”

Queen Trisha nodded. Harry stared between the two women, feeling absolutely lost. Harry had long mastered Nia and familiarized himself with the food, the clothes, and many of the customs of his husband’s people, but Queen Trisha and Eleanor were very clearly discussing a matter that had never come up before in any of Harry’s studies. 

“Find a priest and swear the vows,” Queen Trisha said. “You are in luck. The moon will glow full and bright tonight. The gods will give you their blessing.”

Eleanor stood and sunk into a deep curtsy. She smiled at Harry and Queen Trisha before sweeping out of the room, the doors falling behind her with a soft thunk.

“I don’t understand,” Harry said, turning to Queen Trisha. “What is she doing?”

“She is marrying the gods,” Queen Trisha said. “Dedicating her life to their service and their will. She knew that it is our custom here in Jinan to have holy teachers serve as moral guidance for young princes and princesses.”

“Moral guidance?”

“A spiritual teacher,” the Queen clarified. “Future rulers require a deep understanding and communion with the gods. It’s a testament to how uncertain times have been — and how busy we all are — that the matter has not come up sooner. Once King Yaser steps down and Zayn formally recognizes Joshua as his heir, the young Prince will need such guidance. Eleanor would be an excellent choice.”

“But she’s the Calders only child, isn’t she?” Harry asked. “Her father — ”

“Her father will have to accept her decision,” the Queen interrupted delicately. “And perhaps he will see this for the power play that it is.”

Harry looked at Queen Trisha quizzically, wondering how this decision could possibly work for Eleanor’s benefit, but the Queen did not elaborate any further.

 

It was several days before Harry was able to see Zayn again. The interim was filled with a peculiar mixture of tedium and nightmares. 

The entire court was reeling following the news of Louis’ and Eleanor’s separation and her subsequent decision to commit herself to gods’ work. For once, Harry found himself sitting apart from the chatter. He let the noise wash over him and focused instead on people’s reactions. He noted how people seemed to take sides. Taylor was loud and vocal in her denouncement of Louis, to absolutely no one’s surprise. The newcomer Shahid was equally boisterous in his castigation. Interestingly enough, the Hadid girl and Justin Bieber began to accompany Louis throughout the castle, their heads bent close together in a clash of gold and bronze. Harry wondered what the three of them could possibly be chatting about and whether Harry — and by extension Zayn and their children — should be worried.

But it seemed that whenever Harry wasn’t tending to Sarah and the baby or monitoring the stasis at court, he was lying in bed with heavy limbs and a racing mind. It seemed as though no matter what he did, no matter how much or how little sleep Harry had, he was plagued by nightmares. Fire and blood, always the same. Fire and blood, like the chains binding Harry to Jinan, like the oaths Harry swore when he married Zayn.

Harry assumed it was his mind reacting to the trauma of the past year. He had pushed so much down over the last few months. He ached for his mother and her gentle reassurances. He longed for winter and the snowdrifts of his youth. He wished that his highs weren’t accompanied by such crushing lows. He prayed to his mother’s god for a simpler life, but all he received in return was a torment of night terrors.

 

King Yaser arrived at Queen Trisha’s rooms one blinding summer’s morning to speak to Harry. Their conversation was cordial but terse. The King said that he was heading to the Calder estate to meet with his usual council and a handful of sailors who had recently arrived from the Summer Isles. He invited Harry to accompany him for the next two days, and he said that Harry was more than welcome to bring the children. Harry accepted before the King had even finished his sentence.

Sarah insisted upon staying with the Queen and the young Princesses, and once more Harry did not force the girl into accompanying him. It was probably for the best that Sarah was cultivating a close friendship with Princess Safaa. Sarah would need all the true friends that she could get.

Harry was more than a little surprised when he brought Joshua and his things down to the waiting carriages and saw that Louis, Matty, and Taylor were all waiting on the castle grounds as well. Taylor smiled faintly at Harry when she saw him, dipping into a cursory bow, but Matty and Louis ignored Harry entirely. Harry tried to push down the sting of disappointment and climbed into his carriage, handing Joshua off to one of his nannies and stubbornly shutting his eyes against the world.

 

Zayn was sleeping when Harry first arrived at the Calder estate, so Harry and the baby settled into their usual room on the same floor. Kevin did a quick check of Harry’s quarters while Harry and the nanny put Joshua down for a nap. After that, Harry climbed into bed himself, his dreams a perplexing mixture of fact and fantasy. 

There was the usual blood and fire, the search through an empty castle. And at the end of it all, there was Zayn, but this time he looked more dragon than human, his arms no longer burnt but covered entirely by greenish-gray scales. Behind him there were three women. Gigi with a bow and arrow, and Caroline with a hangman’s noose. Harry did not know the third woman, but she was blonde and petite, her eyes rimmed with black kohl. In her hand she wielded a sword. It was dripping blood and gore that was lapped up by the fire. 

“I don’t understand,” Harry said.

“Soon you will,” Caroline promised. “Everything will become clear if you just take the time to _look_.”

 

When Harry blinked awake, it was evening. Kevin was sitting across the room, sharpening his sword. For a moment Harry’s dream and reality blurred, and all Harry could see was the blonde woman sharpening her own weapon before sending it slashing through flesh and entrails. It felt so real that Harry coughed, bile rising up his throat and threatening to spill out of clenched teeth.

Harry’s dreams had never felt like this before, like the line between lived and imagined had dissolved into meaningless. It reminded Harry of the waking nightmare he experienced when Nick told him his mother had died. Harry wondered whether he was the victim of dark magic. Caroline had admitted that she was not strong enough to cast this type of enchantment. Had Rebecca cast a spell on him? Or was there another occultist in his midst, a magician with abilities Harry could not even begin to comprehend?

“The nanny took Joshua for a bath,” Kevin said, glancing up from his sword. “She thinks it will help soothe him. He awoke some time ago and was squalling something awful. I’m surprised it didn’t wake you.”

Harry rubbed sleep out of his eye and lifted a shoulder. “I haven’t been sleeping well. I — I think my body just needed the respite.”

“Do you feel better rested, Your Highness?” Kevin asked.

Harry laughed humorlessly. He didn’t feel contented or well-rested. He only felt confused. “Not particularly. Is Zayn awake?”

“He is,” Kevin replied. “But Duke Tomlinson is speaking to the Prince right now.”

Harry smiled and forced himself out of bed anyway. 

 

There was always a time and a place for eavesdropping. Harry knew this from a very early age, when he would pretend to be asleep so he could listen in on Lady Cole’s murmured conversations with her many admirers. And it particularly came in handy when Harry grew older and became preoccupied with cultivating his own harem of lovers. He remembered choosing his place at dinner parties with the utmost care, ignoring special seats at the head of a table and instead angling his chair so he could listen in on conversations and catch the choicest tidbits.

People always assumed that Harry’s sexual prowess was entirely due to charm. That was certainly part of it. Mostly, though, Harry was just a nosy and persistent fuck, and he could tweak his personality to fit what he learned.

Harry knew that he could easily interrupt Louis and Zayn’s conversation, but he wanted to know what they were talking about when he wasn’t around. When they thought no one could hear them.

Zayn’s bedroom did not have any balconies, and neither did Harry’s. But Zayn’s bedroom window was open in the wild hope of catching a breeze, and there was a small servants quarters underneath Zayn’s bedroom. The walls were thin and Harry was patient. Most of Zayn and Louis’ conversations of late ended in yelling. Harry just needed to wait.

It wasn’t long until Harry got what he wanted.

“Are you really mad at me?" Louis cried out. Harry would be surprised if everyone on the estate didn’t hear him. “What the _fuck_ , Zayn? Everyone else is — I _know_ that. Calder broke our engagement to fuck the gods and Payne is lecturing me whenever he sees me. That’s fine — I can deal with them. But you can't be angry, too!"

Harry couldn’t hear Zayn’s response. He assumed that Zayn was hissing something between gritted teeth, flailing his arms and staring at Louis pointedly. 

"Because you've already _got_ your Harry! Last I checked, that was the whole bloody point."

Harry heard Zayn’s retort this time. “Yet I can't even be a good fucking husband because of you.”

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Louis shrieked.

“It means you’re chasing after him every moment of the day — "

“Firstly, no, I fucking don’t,” Louis interrupted. “I’ve felt nothing but disdain for him for _months_.” Harry could not make out the rest of Louis’ other points. He only gathered bits and pieces, like “nothing but banter” and “your idiot husband.”

Harry strained his ears and bit at his lip, waiting for Zayn’s response, but all he heard was silence.

“No, no,” Louis protested to whatever Zayn said. “You don't get to shut me out and banish me like everyone else, like you did with Justin and Shahid — "

"You told me to get rid of them!” Zayn bellowed. “It was _your_ idea to remove them from court, not mine!”

“Yes, I did, because they're useless, backstabbing traitors!" Louis screeched. "But you can't do the same shit with me, Zayn. We're brothers. We’re blood.”

“How quaint of you to remind me. You’re dismissed.”

Harry sucked in a quick breath. He could only imagine the look on Louis’ face in this moment. “Zayn — ”

“I won’t banish you from court, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Zayn interrupted. For the first time since Harry started listening in, his voice was measured and cool. It carried not because Zayn was being loud, but because he was speaking so _clearly_. Precisely. “You have a son here and people would talk and call me cruel. I’m tired of having to field gossip related to your idiocy. But you need to find a way to get your betrothal back on track and do what I told you to do!”

“You can’t possibly be serious. She’s already made the vows!”

“I’m very serious.” There was a long beat of silence, one where Harry imagined that Louis was staring in Zayn in shock and disbelief. “Talk to Lady Calder and to her father. Grovel at her feet. Shower her with gifts. Promise that you’ll end the immorality and get your shit together. Her family knows that you are still the best option available to her at court. Many Dukes have bastard children. At least everyone says yours is cute.”

“But I don’t want her!” Louis shouted. “I haven’t and you always said it was temporary. You can’t — _God_ , Zayn, you can’t make me do this! I refuse!”

“And you think that I wanted to marry a stranger from an enemy nation?” Zayn demanded. “Grow up, Louis! There are people in this territory who want me and my husband dead. We aren’t fifteen anymore. This isn’t about what we want — it’s _never_ been about what we want. This is about duty and honor. Say what you want about Harry — call him naive, call him childish — but at least he understands that. It’s time you did the same and prove your utility. Don’t come back until you’ve done _all_ that I told you to. You’re dismissed.”

There was some movement above Harry’s head, almost like Louis took a step forward to continue his protestations, but the noise stopped as suddenly as it started.

The next thing Harry heard was the open and slam of a door. Harry was outside of the servants quarters and darting up the stairs a beat later.

 

Harry was out of breath when he threw Zayn’s bedroom door open and locked it behind him.

Zayn stared at Harry from where he was sitting at the foot of his bed, his face pinched. His burns were still wrapped over, but he looked far healthier than he had the last time Harry visited. His cheeks had color and he appeared well-rested. He watched Harry with thinly concealed suspicion. “Were you listening in on Louis and I? How much of that did you hear?”

Harry scuffed his boots along the ground as he weighed his options. Should he be honest, or should he tell another lie? Did it even matter? Harry was tired and he was so sick of pretending as though he was somehow a step ahead in this game of thrones. Zayn always saw right through Harry either way. 

“All of it,” Harry confessed. “Or — maybe not all of it, but I heard when the two of you were yelling at each other, and I wanted to see you before someone else did. Why are you so upset with Tomlinson?”

Zayn licked over his lips nervously. “He’s always been _distracted_ ,” Zayn said. “He takes people on as projects and loses sight of what’s really important. He’s being a hindrance, not a help.”

Harry tilted his head. Zayn had a habit of burying his true meaning underneath multiple layers of interpretation. Harry wasn’t sure whether Zayn was making a commentary on some sort of task Louis was supposed to complete, or on the discovery of Louis’ bastard child, or something else entirely. 

“You think he took me on as a one of his projects? Me and Liam and that peasant girl? And it’s distracting him?”

Zayn scoffed. “Don’t you?”

Harry hesitated. He wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to respond. He knew that the closeness that had once existed between Harry and Louis still made Zayn feel uncomfortable. And Zayn was annoyed that Louis’ carelessness and insensitivity had lost him a good and apparently useful bride in Eleanor Calder. Bedridden and bored as he was, Zayn’s threshold for stupidity was probably lower now than it had ever been. But Harry knew that wasn’t all of it. There was something else here, something unspoken.

For not the first time, Harry thought of Zayn and Louis’ intimacy and those pesky rumors. “ _There were rumors that Tomlinson had worked some sort of enchantment over the Prince_ ,” Taylor confided to Harry once. “ _There were some at court who thought that something inappropriate happened between the Prince and Tomlinson_.”

Harry hated himself for even thinking about it. He hated himself for wondering. He hated himself for doubting Zayn and for not trusting his word implicitly. 

“Harry?” Zayn prodded. He was looking at Harry in something akin to panic. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Harry said dismissively, shaking his head and laughing at himself. He wondered what had flashed across his face, how much he had inadvertently given away. Harry shouldn’t pursue this line of conversation any further. It would only bring up devils Harry wasn’t willing to chase. “It’s only — you’re not a bad husband. You never have been. And I miss you. I can’t sleep. I — I should be _here_ , Zayn. I should be with you.”

Zayn licked over his lips and made to run his hand through his hair but stopped suddenly, the aborted gesture sharp and awkward. “I miss you, too,” Zayn whispered. “You’re a part of me now, yes?”

“Yes,” Harry agreed. Everything in his head had gone tipsy-turvy with his doubts and suspicions, and yet he was desperate to provide Zayn with comfort and reassurance. He wanted to delude himself with the illusion of security and affection. He wanted everything to go back to normal. He didn’t want to think about things he had already forced inside of a little box of hidden qualms. “You’re a part of me and I’m a part of you. I ache whenever I fall asleep and you’re not at my side. I don’t want to be separated from you when I don’t need to be.” Harry took a long, shuddery breath, and forced himself to continue. “And I — I don’t think I can do what you need me to. I don’t think I can find out who did this to you.”

Zayn pursed his lips and blinked, his eyelashes sweeping against his cheekbones. “Why not? Harry — ”

“I’m not made for this,” Harry admitted. “For skulking around and intrigue. Not for important things. That’s — it’s not in my blood. And it’s driving me mad, trying to trick people into telling me things, especially when nobody is talking to me.”

Zayn’s eyes narrowed. “Nobody is talking to you because you went ahead with that ridiculous ceremony.”

Harry worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “I — yes. Probably.”

Zayn continued to stare at Harry, his focus so intense that Harry felt like he was being flayed, like Zayn was somehow burrowing underneath his skin. Finally Zayn sighed, turning away and patting the bed awkwardly. “Come.”

Harry did as he was bid, sitting next to Zayn on the mattress. Zayn smelled as he always did, like pears and that expensive lavender soap made by one of the merchants in the marketplace, like musk and the smoke of a pipe. Harry wanted to drag him underneath the covers, wanted to tear off his clothes and relearn his skin as a distraction, but Harry couldn’t. Harry wondered if he would ever be able to use sex as a game again without recalling the sound of shattering glass, without remembering what Zayn looked like coming out of the palace with tattered robes and white-blonde hair. 

“Why don’t you ever bring the girl with you?” Zayn asked suddenly. “Sarah. I haven’t seen her in almost a moon.”

Harry lifted a shoulder. “I always ask her whether she wants to come.”

“And?”

“And she wanted to play with your sister, Princess Safaa,” Harry explained.

Zayn exhaled slowly and ran bandaged hands over the side of his face. For one aching moment, he looked so wistful and sublime that it made Harry’s heart stop. “She doesn’t _want_ to see me.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed hesitantly. “And no.” Zayn tilted his head and gazed at Harry inquisitively. “She — how would you feel, if you were her? You do not want to recognize her as your child and she _knows_ that. She knows what that means, even if it’s never been explicitly stated or explained. Everyone fawns over Joshua — Eleanor, your mother, the servants. Even I spend more time with the boy than I probably should. She’s trying to protect herself the only way she knows how.”

Zayn closed his eyes. “I thought I was protecting her here in Jinan by _not_ acknowledging her,” Zayn admitted. “She’s still a Princess in her own right through you — a daughter of Holmes.”

“Holmes no longer exists, Zayn.”

“Of course it does,” Zayn replied. “That Usurper may be parading around the kingdom trying to rally support and raise an army, but you’re still the rightful heir and you’ve adopted Sarah as your own. Just imagine how powerful you and Sarah would be if you arrived on the shore of your homeland today. The true King and his young daughter. The Usurper’s head would be on a spike within days.”

The image arrived in Harry’s head almost completely unbidden. It was Sarah, but older. She was a young woman on horseback, her unruly curls pulled back into a plait, and her brown skin shone in the stark winter sun. She was dressed in breeches and a flowing white blouse, but she had a sword at her belt, and her eyes were dark and steely. Somehow she managed to look more regal than Harry ever did.

For not the first time, Sarah viscerally reminded Harry of his sister, Gemma.

“Is that your plan for Sarah?” Harry asked, shaking his head and willing the image away. “You keep her out of the politics here in Jinan with the hope that she assumes rule over Holmes one day?”

Zayn smiled a feral grin. Harry felt a spike of lust punch through his guts and unfurl slowly. “Finding out who set the fire is more important than anything else right now, Harry. If you help me discover the traitor, I can better protect you — you and Joshua and Sarah. Such assistance would have rewards, too. What kind of husband would I be to let that girl go away empty-handed?”

 

Zayn tried to cajole Harry into spending the night in his bed, but Harry manfully resisted. Harry couldn’t trust himself not to fuck Zayn if they spent the night together, and Harry knew that Zayn needed a period of celibacy in order to recover completely. Zayn was very clearly cross, but Harry promised Zayn a string of filthy sexual acts the minute his burns were completely healed. Harry hoped Zayn focused his attention on that instead.

When Harry returned to his room, Joshua was crawling around on the floor, his nanny watching him with pride etched into the lines of her face. Harry made his way onto the floor too, tickling Joshua’s stomach and making him squeal. 

Joshua was such a happy baby, bubbly and sweet. Sometimes Harry wondered whether Joshua missed his aunt or even remembered her. And sometimes Harry wondered whether he had done the right thing by taking the boy from her. But whenever such thoughts crossed Harry’s mind, he just pulled Joshua into his arms and breathed in the smell of his clean skin and ran his fingers over the boy’s fine blonde hair. Joshua still smacked Harry’s face more often than not, scratched at Harry’s cheeks with tiny nails and sometimes spat up all over him, but Harry was so fond of the baby it hardly mattered. Harry might have taken Joshua from his family, stolen him away like a common thief, but Harry loved Joshua. Harry would do anything for him.

And Harry would do anything for Sarah, too. He would do anything for that rambunctious little girl who had once thrown him and Zayn a pear from the side of the road. She reminded Harry of a different time, of something like innocence, of a relationship he’d cherished and lost. He’d gladly give Sarah a kingdom if he could.

Joshua could have Zayn’s world, and Sarah could have Harry’s. It seemed almost fair.

Harry squeezed Joshua closer to him, lingering in the moment of connection with his son, and only yelped a little when Joshua grabbed a tiny fistful of his hair and yanked. 

 

The dream returned again that night. 

Blood dripped onto the floor at Harry’s feet and his hands left smears on the walls. The castle was empty, and this time Harry couldn’t even find Zayn in the burned out ruins of his room. He doubled back and made his way down the staircases, pushing open the door to the castle grounds. But when he threw the doors open, he was not greeted by the sunshine of a long summer. He was greeted by a lashing wind and the cold sting of snow. 

Zayn was sitting on an ice throne with Tessa the direwolf at his feet. Tessa was gnawing a bone between her great teeth, cracking it to get at the marrow. The three women were standing behind Zayn again — Gigi, Caroline, and the blonde stranger. The bow and arrow, the hangman’s noose, and the sword.

“I don’t understand,” Harry said.

Gigi notched an arrow in her bow and let it fly. Harry felt the ghost of the fletching press past his ear, as soft as a caress.

“You missed,” Harry said.

Gigi shook her head and gestured at the body lying behind Harry in the snow, the arrowhead sunk deep into the man’s throat. The man gurgled on his blood. It was a sick noise, that death-rattle. Harry shivered.

He hadn’t even known that there was someone behind him. 

“I never miss,” Gigi said. 

 

Harry gasped awake, his eyes flashing open and his heart racing.

And there, sitting at the edge of his bed with a goblet of wine in hand, was Louis.

“You were whimpering in your sleep,” Louis remarked. “What were you dreaming about?”

Harry pulled his blankets over his chest, skittering back along the length of his mattress. “What are you doing here?” Harry demanded.

Louis glanced at Harry, his eyes red-rimmed and more than a little unsteady. He stood, placing the goblet on a table near Harry’s bed, and wavered, clearly uncertain what to do with himself. He was wearing the same clothes he had earlier in the day, albeit now they were a fair amount dustier, and his hair was disheveled. His entire person smelled faintly of alcohol. Harry did not think he had ever seen Louis so rumpled. Or so drunk.

“What are you doing here?” Harry repeated. “How did you get past Kevin and the other guards?”

Louis smirked, tossing his hair out of his eyes and leering at Harry. “Kevin is asleep,” Louis said. “The King’s guards are all off playing cards. Your baby is asleep as well — the sweet little thing — and your nanny is fucking one of the stable boys. I would remove the whole lot of them if I were you.”

“But _what are you doing here_?” Harry said. “I won’t repeat myself again.”

“Oh, I forgot that Prince Kitty has grown claws,” Louis giggled. “I just came to see you.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “And now you have. Go.”

Louis rolled his eyes and laid back against the bed, narrowly avoiding Harry’s legs and feet. Harry recoiled from him, sweeping his feet under his bum and watching Louis balefully. Louis ignored Harry completely, stretching his arms over his head and humming under his breath.

“This bed is far more comfortable than my own,” Louis said conversationally. “Perhaps once your quarters are restored, you can ask the Queen to toss this mattress my way.”

“Should I do that before or after I tell her that you called me a traitor?” 

Louis looked up at Harry, his face momentarily screwed up in confusion. “A traitor?”

“Yes,” Harry retorted with a huff. “Or have you forgotten the whole matter already?”

“I — ” Louis cut himself off suddenly, peering at Harry so intensely that Harry wanted to hide underneath his blankets like a child. “Did Zayn never tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Louis paused, still staring at Harry as though he had grown an extra limb. After a moment, Louis said, “Zayn asked me to do all of that. When Healy and l found him in the castle — before he collapsed. He asked me to make a scene at court and to publicly accuse you of starting the fire.”

Harry blinked, mind reeling. It didn’t make any sense. Zayn asked Louis to turn Harry’s life at court upside down — was somehow able to concoct this plot while staggering out of the castle? Zayn asked Louis to plant the idea of Harry’s treason at court, was the reason why Harry’s friends and countrymen were avoiding him? How could Zayn possibly be behind all of this turmoil and uncertainty? And why would he even think of such a plot?

No matter how Harry sliced it, the pieces simply weren’t adding up. And it wasn’t like Louis had a spectacular track record when it came to matters like telling the truth. 

Louis was always his own first priority — Harry knew that. He _knew_ it. It wouldn’t surprise Harry if Louis was concocting another tall tale in order to regain Harry’s trust and save his own ass. Zayn was upset with Louis, and Louis’ influence at court only extended as far as the Prince’s good will. If Louis convinced Harry that his actions were all for Zayn’s benefit, Harry could talk to Zayn and convince him that Louis should be trusted again. 

Unfortunately, there was nothing Louis could say that would convince Harry. 

“I don’t believe you,” Harry declared. “Zayn would — Zayn wouldn’t ask you to do something so horrible. Not to _me_.”

“I wouldn’t have agreed if I had known you weren’t in on it,” Louis said, his tone suddenly apologetic. “I — I was so sure you knew, that he told you when he woke. You did everything he said you would. And that was why you were able to eat the horse heart so easily — because you trained. Zayn _told_ me that, Harry.”

“I trained because you accused me of treason in front of all my friends!” Harry cried. “Not because Zayn gave me any sort of forewarning. Or because I was in on — ” Harry cut himself off and slumped against the bed, the fight leeching out of him entirely as his mind sped forward. 

Suddenly, all Harry could think about was Zayn presenting him with a task and how eagerly Harry accepted. Zayn told Harry to return to the palace and find the traitor, and Harry said he would do whatever Zayn asked. He didn’t even think twice.

Zayn knew how to manipulate his court and, perhaps even more tellingly, he knew how to manipulate Harry. Zayn knew that his countrymen would whisper about Harry — they always did, and they were always looking for reasons not to trust him. Perhaps most importantly, Zayn knew that Harry was not guilty of this act, but was instead the intended victim. 

Either way, Harry would be accused, would be called a traitor, a murderer. There would be a foil, an accuser, someone that court would rally around in its condemnation. But what if Zayn attempted to pre-empt that? What if Zayn attempted to control the message that was out there against Harry — and the messenger? Louis was just as eager to bend to Zayn’s will as Harry was. Harry doubted that Zayn had concocted this entire plan in whatever steps it took to walk from the castle to the grounds outside, but Harry could see that there might be a small kernel of truth in Louis’ words.

Maybe Zayn had latched onto the doubt that already existed within Louis. Maybe Zayn told Louis to be loud and vocal in his dislike of Harry in the hope that the traitor approached Louis and confessed his sins or otherwise gave himself away. 

Harry could see Zayn doing _that_. Hadn’t Zayn said earlier that Louis wasn’t being useful at the moment? A hindrance, not a help. “ _It’s time you did the same and prove your utility_ ,” Zayn had said to Louis. “ _Don’t come back until you’ve done all that I told you to_.”

Louis had left immediately after his conversation with Zayn. Kevin had mentioned offhand that Louis had taken a horse from one of the stables and ridden back to court. But now he was returned, lying at the edge of Harry’s bed, drunk and vibrating with anxiety.

Louis wasn’t being completely honest, but it was possible that he wasn’t being completely dishonest either.

“ _Oh_ ,” Harry whispered. “What did Zayn task you with? Tell me everything.”

“Publicly accuse you — say that you could only win my trust again with some impossible task,” Louis said. “And — and he told me to watch and observe, see how Justin, Shahid, and Gigi all reacted.”

“He thinks one of them is the traitor?” Harry asked. “But none of them were even here when the fire started.”

“They each have resources and ample reason to want you out of the picture,” Louis replied. “Zayn asked Justin to leave court before you arrived and Justin has never forgiven Zayn for it. Shahid and Zayn were once very close, and Shahid was providing financial backing to King Yaser’s mercenaries during the war. I’m not sure why he and Zayn had a falling out, but the throne would turn to Shahid again if we were to declare war on Holmes or the revolting territories. And the Hadid girl is what Swift would be if she had a mini kingdom behind her. She thinks she should be the one ruling at Zayn’s side — not you. And to top it all off, they all seemed quick enough to believe you capable of treason and murder a week ago.”

Harry shuddered and bit at his lip hard enough to break the skin. He sucked in a quick taste of copper before bringing his hand to his mouth, huffing at himself when his thumb came away smeared with blood.

“So why are you here?” Harry muttered. “If — if you thought I was in on all of this, somehow your accomplice in this task, why are you here?”

Louis leaned forward, his eyes clear and focused. For a moment, Harry remembered everything he appreciated about Louis — his loyalty, his resourcefulness, his sheer boneheaded determination. Before Harry met Zayn, he had entertained all sorts of _thoughts_ about Louis, lustful aspirations that would turn Zayn’s blood cold if he ever discovered the truth now.

Harry’s attraction to Louis had died long ago, smothered when Harry learned all that Louis was capable of in his quest for wealth and power, but that did not mean Harry forgot what it felt like to want him.

“I’m here because I went back to court after meeting with your dear husband and the stars all fucking aligned,” Louis whispered. “I figured it all out. Harry, I know who set the fire to try and kill you.” 


	21. Part Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wanted to close his eyes and embrace the dark. He wanted to sleep without dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's still in this with me.

Harry’s mouth tasted of copper from where he had chewed through his bottom lip. He brought a hand to his mouth and winced when the salt of his skin made contact with the open cut. He didn’t even know his hands had been sweating.

There was a small part of his brain that clamored for recognition and acknowledgement. This part of himself agitated that he should be feeling _more_ , should be crying and screaming and demanding honesty from everyone around him. But when Harry turned his eyes internally, that voice fell silent. All Harry could find within himself was a well of bone-deep exhaustion and resignation.

Perhaps there was a limit to how much backstabbing and conniving Harry could take. His entire world of late felt like a series of upheavals, little earthquakes, crashing terra that was gradually molding him into something new. But Harry wasn’t sure whether his new self was stronger due to the trials he had survived, or more brittle because of all the weight he was carrying on his shoulders.

Harry wanted Louis to say whatever he needed to say and leave. Harry wanted the world to stop and for his worries to melt away under the glaring summer sun. 

Harry wanted to close his eyes and embrace the dark. He wanted to sleep without dreaming. 

“So why are you here?” Harry muttered. “If — if you thought I was in on all of this, somehow your accomplice in this task, why are you here?”

Louis leaned forward, his eyes crisp, blue, and as deceptive as a rip current. Louis’ breath smelled of wine and he was sitting close — too close. Harry could feel the heat radiating from his body. A small part of him wanted to sway into that heat and see if he would burn, but mostly Harry felt repulsed. 

“I’m here because I went back to court after meeting with your dear husband and the stars all fucking aligned. I figured it all out. Harry, I know who set the fire to try and kill you.”

Harry met Louis’ stare, his body shivering under the weight of Louis’ words. The desire to lean into him grew stronger, but so did the repulsion. There was just something so _easy_ about curving toward Louis, about accepting his words at face value. But Harry knew he had no reason to trust Louis, either. Harry didn’t know if he could trust _anyone_ anymore. 

So instead of leaning into Louis’ heat, instead of wading into the rip tide of his eyes, Harry turned away, asking a wry, “Have you now?”

If Louis picked up on Harry’s cynicism, he didn’t let on. He just continued to look at Harry with a devilish grin, tilting forward conspiratorially and dropping a hand on Harry’s thigh. Harry grabbed Louis by the wrist and plopped his fingers back onto the bed. 

“It’s amazing how much wine loosens a man’s lips,” Louis remarked, almost like he didn’t feel Harry touch him at all. His words were still slurred, a tumble of eager consonants. “I left earlier and returned to court, you know. I went on a very pleasant horse ride with Lady Hadid.”

Harry frowned, confusion making his thoughts feel slow and muddy. “What are you talking about?”

“I am _setting the scene_ ,” Louis answered drolly. “Something you know nothing about, since you are a horrific storyteller.”

“Setting the scene for _what_ , Louis? What are you on about?”

Louis’ smile was somewhere between a leer and a grimace. A baring of teeth. “To tell you about the traitor, of course,” he said, licking over his lips. “Now, as I was _saying_. I returned to court and decided to clear my mind by taking a trip to the stables. It was just the three of us — me, Gigi, and your traitor. Although I didn’t know he was your traitor then. I had no clue.

“We took our horses out and raced them. Felt the wind in our hair. Told jokes and exchanged old stories. We had once all lived at court together, you know, back when life was simpler and the war was little more than a phantasm halfway across the world. Gigi was always somewhat on the periphery of Zayn’s clique. She was close to Princess Edwards as a girl, so we all gave her a wide berth once it became clear that King Yaser was going to break that betrothal. 

“But that’s all in the past now. Gigi promised Taylor that they would have tea together before dinner, so she did not stay out on the grounds long. We watched her walk away, and your would-be murderer made a joke about how if he could make the choice again now, he would’ve ventured north just for the opportunity to wed and bed her. I was already a little drunk, so I laughed. It seemed like the right thing to do.

“And then we talked about wedding gifts — joked about the sort of things he would’ve expected to receive if he had indeed had the good fortune of marrying Lady Hadid. Because you see, what our traitor said in the midst of all this ribbing was quite peculiar. He mentioned that he and his wife had given you and Zayn a very rare Dothraki Arakh, but he’d never seen it in your shared quarters. It was a quick slip of the tongue, I think, and if it were anyone else, they might not think it odd. But as it were, he was talking to me — ”

Harry glanced at his own hands and noticed with a distant sort of awareness that they were trembling. Suddenly, he felt terrified. “ _Louis_ — ”

“I presume that you never even knew that Bieber and his wife had given you anything in the first place,” Louis said. “Not that you ever notice much, and you and Zayn received an ungodly number of wedding presents. And, of course, Zayn was upset with our dear Justin at the time, so he actually asked for me to get rid of it. I gave the Arakh to Eleanor because I knew her father’s quite obsessed with artifacts from Essos and Westeros and she brought it back here, where it is now mounted in the hallway.”

Harry’s head was spinning. He remembered making note of the Arakh when they first brought Zayn to the Calder estate, even through the haze of panic. He’d held his breath as he took in the long, curved steel, as well as the Valyrian sword in the main entertainment room. He’d assumed that both artifacts were acquired by the Calders over the course of generations. 

Harry also knew that he’d never seen the Arakh before, not amongst all of the gifts that servants had placed in Harry’s rooms in the weeks after the wedding. 

“This is all quite funny in hindsight, but it does beg the question — when would Justin have had the occasion to see you and Zayn’s quarters?” Louis continued. “He hasn’t been in the capital in almost two years. Or so I thought, until I paid a visit to the Old Inn this evening.”

“The Old Inn?” Harry repeated, still feeling dazed. He did not know much about the inns, brothels, and taverns in Jinan, considering how he only ever stayed with nobles or in homes he or his husband owned, but Harry had heard a few choice tidbits about The Old Inn. It was a popular destination for merchants, one bustling with lithe, willing bodies and cheap ale. It wasn’t the type of place Harry could ever visit — not without causing Zayn grief and dishonor — but Harry always had the impression that Lord Bieber and his wife, Selena, had a much looser marital agreement than the one Zayn and Harry honored.

“Yes,” Louis replied. “My son’s mother works at The Old Inn as a barmaid.” 

“Is that how you met her?” Harry asked. “Spinning tales of woe to a poor peasant girl?”

Louis glanced at Harry sharply but did not respond to his question. “I paid Briana and my son a visit and asked whether Lord Bieber had purchased a room within the past moon. You can imagine my surprise when she told me he had indeed done so.”

“But that doesn’t mean anything,” Harry said, even as his hands continued to shake. “He could’ve just been there to enjoy the _amenities_ The Old Inn has to offer.”

“Oh, I am not disagreeing with you,” Louis said. “Apparently Justin used to spend an ungodly amount of time there with those upstart Jenner girls, and he has recently begun renting rooms with a girl from the Baldwin family. Selena is very upset about his lack of discretion, but considering she’s been sleeping with one of Justin’s bannermen, there’s not much to be done. But when Justin last arrived, it was without any of his usual female companions. He met a man in the bar, paid him, and made his way to his room.”

Harry licked copper from his lips and shoved his hands underneath his legs in a desperate attempt to cease their shaking. He felt like he was losing control over himself, over his thoughts and his reactions. The world in front of him was blurring and shifting, rolling into darkness. 

He felt like he was going mad.

Harry laughed helplessly as he realized that he’d felt this strange sensation before. The first time was years ago, with Caroline at his side. He’d taken her to bed, and she’d smelled of wine and cloves. Afterwards, she’d leaned in close, the flame of candles catching on her honeyed hair. “I want to help you _see_ ,” she had said, laying a hand over his temple. And the images she’d projected into Harry’s mind were brief and flickering — grey skies and snowcapped mountains, the familiar rolling thrum of a carriage, a snatch of blonde hair, the clatter of a knife. Caroline had jerked back from Harry with a shudder, her pupils wide but unseeing. 

The second time was not many moons ago, when Nick and Aimee first arrived in the capital. It had felt like this too — like pain and confusion and _magic_ , like the confirmation of Harry’s worst fears. And just as before, reality bent and transformed, becoming something new and ghastly. Whatever link tying Harry to the present gave way entirely. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes rolling into the back of his head while Louis reached for his shoulder and screamed his name, and suddenly he was — 

 

Harry found himself standing outside of The Old Inn. The establishment was exactly what its name indicated — a decrepit tavern near the eastern border of Jinan’s walls. The Inn was built right off the main road into the capital and it stood, large and looming, over the surrounding buildings and homes. A sign swayed over its entrance, dusty and creaking, and girls stood on the porch outside, fanning themselves and calling out to passerby. A silver coin got you a bed, two got you a bed and dinner. A gold coin got you far, far more.

Harry was certain that Lord Bieber already knew everything there was to know about The Old Inn and its price system. The young baron arrived in a dark, gold-trimmed robe and greeted the waiting stableboy with the familiarity of a frequent visitor. Harry wondered if he’d ever passed Justin on the road as he headed to the markets or the university. He probably had. 

Justin dismounted from his steed and handed the reigns to the stableboy. Harry watched on as Justin swiped at his sweaty hair, swaggering his way to The Old Inn’s front doors. The man looked flushed and anxious, glancing around himself as though his wife would jump out of the bushes at any moment. It was sweltering in the capital, as usual, so Justin grabbed a handkerchief from inside his robes, dabbing his face with the cloth as he climbed the creaking steps. Harry followed him feeling like some sort of ghost, his presence little more than a slight, stirring breeze.

Justin hesitated on the porch and one of the workers, a dark haired beauty wearing a red dress, swayed over and put a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Hailey hasn’t arrived yet, My Lord,” the girl murmured. “We haven’t seen _any_ of your girls in almost a moon. The Queen has been summoning highborn ladies to court — rumor has it she’s looking for someone to carry Prince Zayn’s child.”

“I’m sure Hailey will come up with a creative enough excuse,” Justin replied dismissively, even as Harry’s head began to spin. Queen Trisha had been secretly entertaining young noblewomen? _When_? And how had this escaped Harry’s notice? “I wrote to her nearly a fortnight ago to schedule this visit. Tell Briana to send her up to my room when she arrives.”

The girl nodded and lifted her hand from Justin’s shoulder, turning back to the road and pasting a sultry grin on her face. Justin watched her for a long, considering moment, his gaze affixed to the girl’s backside, before turning back to the entrance and sweeping inside.

The Inn was dim and raucous. There were musicians in one of the corners playing a bawdy song, the lyrics a strange jumble of Nia and another dialect Harry could not follow. Patrons swayed to the beat and knocked glasses of ale onto the already sticky floor. Girls and rent boys made their way through the crowd, sauntering over to tables in sweat-stained clothing and naming their prices. It was exceptionally warm and the whole establishment smelled of bread, sex, and cured meat. Strangely enough, the scene reminded Harry of Holmes, of sneaking out to pubs with Caroline and spending an evening pretending he was a nobody.

Justin made his way to the bar and held a gold coin in between his pointer and middle fingers. A blonde woman quickly sauntered over, plucking the coin from Justin’s fingers.

“The Baldwin girl isn’t here, my Lord,” the blonde woman said. It took Harry a moment to place her, considering how different the contexts were, but the woman had the same drawl as the girl who had appeared at court with a child. With _Louis’_ child. “But your room is ready and I can send up a bottle of the finest wine while you wait.”

“Or you can send me one of your finest girls,” Justin answered with a leer. “You know how lonely I get, Briana.”

Briana smiled and leaned in close to Justin, but the upward quirk of her lips didn’t reach her eyes at all. “There _is_ a new girl here, my Lord. She’s only been with us a week. Blonde, petite. I’ve been told she’s quite a handful. If you squint, she might even look like the Baldwin girl.”

Justin laughed. “What’s her name?”

“She’s been calling herself Louise.”

“Like the father of your bastard?” Justin asked. “Did he get a baby on her, too?”

Briana turned scarlet and raised up from where she had been hunched over the bar. “I’ll go get you a drink, my Lord.”

Justin continued to snicker to himself and turned away from the bar. Harry watched as he scanned the floor, fingering the robes he had draped over his arm.

But then Justin’s eyes lit up and he began shoving his way through the crowd. He came to a stop in front of a table where two men were sitting. One of them was cloaked, his face shadowed. The other was Shahid.

“My Lord,” Shahid said, inclining his head. He did not seem surprised to see Justin. Indeed, he spoke in the measured tones of a man who was expecting such a visit. And the other man mimicked him, his voice low and booming. 

“Shahid,” Justin replied, inclining his head. “And — ?”

“He is no one,” Shahid answered, pushing his chair away from the table and standing. “Just as I was never here. May you both be successful in your efforts.”

“There’s a new girl here,” Justin said, his words stopping Shahid as he took a few steps toward the exit. “They said she’s been calling herself Louise.”

Shahid’s face drained of color. Suddenly, he began to sweat. “Do the Healys — ?”

“I doubt Tomlinson or his cronies know, even though this is where he’s stashed his mistress,” Justin said. “Find her _quickly_ , Shahid. If we are smart, we can make our moves all at once.”

Shahid nodded and changed direction, walking over to the bar instead. Justin watched him go before turning to the cloaked man at his side.

“You are from Essos?” Justin asked, switching his tongue to a broken and awkward Braavosi. Harry cringed just hearing it.

“Yes,” the man answered, albeit in Nia.

“And you are what Shahid says?” Justin continued in his struggling Braavosi. “You are what we need? A Faceless Man?”

“I am what your friend says,” the man replied, again in Nia.

Justin bit his lip to hold back his smile.

Harry’s fingertips tingled, perhaps in expectation. He teared his gaze from this strange world his mind had constructed and instead tried to make sense of his body. But Harry could not see anything — he wasn’t corporeal. He was a ghost, a phantasm, a whisper in the wind. 

The world titled and dispersed, scattering in the breeze like dust motes. Harry let himself be carried amongst the flutter, closing his eyes and relaxing into the sensation.

And for the first time in _weeks_ , Harry slept peacefully.

 

When Harry woke, it was abruptly. One moment he was swimming in enveloping darkness, lost in the peacefulness it provided. The next, he was twisting awake, his heart beating a staccato rhythm in his throat.

He was panting loudly even to his own ears, desperately attempting to catch his breath. Sleep had felt like a caress, like the sweetest of respites, but Harry’s mind was racing and his body ached like it hardly registered the unexpected reprieve. He felt worn out and his brain flashed between images he couldn’t make heads nor tails of. He blinked once and saw a cloaked man drifting through the castle doors. He blinked again and saw Zayn’s room in the Calder estate, the room that smelled of the fresh wildflowers on the bedside table. He blinked a third time and saw a body lying in the snow, an arrow sunk deep in the cadaver’s throat. He closed his eyes and attempted to wipe the sweat from his brow, but he couldn’t. Harry tugged, gently and then more frantically, before realizing that his arms were restrained to his bedpost with rope.

Harry blinked away perspiration as he began to consider the room around him. He couldn’t smell wildflowers or baking bread. He couldn’t hear the pitter-patter of servants’ feet or the idle chatter of knights pacing the castle grounds. The sun was high in the sky, approaching midday if Harry had to guess, but it was slanting through the windows the wrong way. Hell — even the windows didn’t look like how he remembered them — wide and oval-shaped when they should’ve been slimmer and rectangular. And there was no bookcase in the room, nor did Harry see Joshua’s tiny bed or hear his familiar baby chatter.

Harry wasn’t at the Calder estate. He was somewhere else, and he was tied up like a dog.

There was a loud bang to Harry’s right and then Kevin was bursting into the room. His skin was pallid and his eyes wild, but there was something like relief in the slope of his shoulders, particularly when he came to stand over Harry’s bed. Harry recoiled from him nonetheless. 

“Your Highness,” Kevin said, his tone gentle, similar to the soft voice he used whenever he spoke to Joshua or Sarah. “Are you all right?”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Harry demanded, his voice cracking unflatteringly in his alarm. “Where am I? And why have you tied me up? _Kevin_ — ”

“We’re currently staying with the Jenners,” Kevin answered hastily. “Prince Zayn had you moved for your own safety.”

Harry squawked, “My own safety? What do you mean?”

Kevin bit his lip, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. “Your Highness, I don’t want to cause you any alarm, but you have been unconscious for almost a fortnight.”

Harry gasped, his eyes bulging out of his skull. Two weeks? _Two weeks?_ He’d been encircled in darkness for two bloody weeks? And yet his body didn’t even have the decency to feel well-rested? Harry couldn’t comprehend Kevin’s words. It didn’t make any sense.

“But the kids,” Harry protested. “Sarah and Joshua — ”

“They’re here,” Kevin interrupted. “The Calder girl has been tending to them — as have I. Sarah’s hardly left your side. She’s even taken her studies in this room.”

“ — And Tessa — ”

“Also here. Also safe. Probably eating raw venison as we speak. The Jenner girls have been spoiling her.”

“ _Zayn_ — ”

“Has been distraught,” Kevin said. “He’s spent a fair amount of his time in the courtyard hitting things. I sent Sir Payne to summon him just now. I’m sure he’ll be here in a few moments.”

And almost on cue, Zayn came bursting through the door, Louis and Matty at his heels. Zayn’s hair was black, not the lightning white Harry had started to become accustomed to, and his face looked fuller than Harry remembered. He wasn’t even wearing bandages on his hands. 

But then Harry peered closer and realized that the roots of Zayn’s hair were still pale. It appeared Zayn’s hair was actually growing in white-blonde. He must have dyed his tresses a raven shade in order to regain his old appearance.

Zayn rushed toward the bed, shoving Kevin out of the way in his haste to reach Harry. When he approached the mattress, he brought his hands to cup Harry’s face, pressing in for a kiss full of cheer and relief. Zayn only pulled away reluctantly when someone behind them coughed, sitting beside Harry’s hips on the bed. 

Louis and Matty lingered by the doorway, looking distinctly nervous and out of place.

“All of you — leave,” Zayn instructed. “But Kevin, untie Harry first.”

Louis and Matty scurried out, looking fairly happy to do so. Kevin lingered only long enough to remove Harry’s restraints. Harry rubbed his fingers along the raised, sunset hued marks the ropes left behind on his skin.

“You were thrashing in your sleep,” Zayn explained, his eyes locked on Harry’s bruised wrists. The veins in his neck flexed when he gulped. He seemed tense, as though he were wound very, very tight and had forgotten how not to be. Harry wanted to console him, but he also didn’t understand what was happening. Harry didn’t know whether Zayn deserved consolation. “You wouldn’t wake up and you were thrashing like you had a nightmare. Like you were cursed.”

“Cursed?”

“What other explanation could there be?” Zayn asked. “Asleep for two weeks and clawing at yourself? We were afraid to spoon feed you and equally afraid to let you be. Perhaps you would’ve awoken on your own out of hunger. But the magi had — something. A potion we could pour down your throat without you choking.”

Harry looked at his husband, puzzled and disbelieving. None of this seemed quite real. The last thing he remembered had been a conversation with Louis. Then he’d fallen into something. Not a dream. A vision, maybe. And there had been a Faceless Man — the type of assassin Harry had only thought existed in the Knight-Errant’s tales. And Lord Bieber was there — Harry’s betrayer. He’d felt something like clarity. And then he fell asleep. What Harry had thought was a blissful and peaceful sleep.

“We were at the Calders,” Harry began hesitantly. “You and Louis had quarreled earlier in the day. I’d fallen asleep and Louis woke me in the middle of the night to tell me — he said he found out who caused the fire.”

Zayn leaned into Harry hungrily, desperate for information. “And then?” 

“And then . . . ” Harry trailed off. How could he explain the unexplainable? That he had somehow been able to _see_ Justin’s betrayal? It was madness. No one would believe him. Harry didn't even believe himself. “And then I don’t know.”

“You don’t _know_? Harry — ”

“I don’t know,” Harry insisted. “Everything went dark. Maybe it _was_ some sort of magic.”

Zayn swept a hand over his face and Harry saw that the skin was actually cracked and puckered. Those scars really would linger, then. “Louis said your eyes rolled back in your head and you — you just wouldn’t wake up. You were breathing, but nobody could get you to wake. It was the middle of the night and I didn’t know why he was even in the room with you. I panicked. My father summoned my mother and sisters back from court and sent them to the mountains. He wanted to send me there, too, but I refused. I moved us here instead.”

“And that’s all?” Harry pressed. “I had a fit and you decided we should stay with the Jenners?”

Zayn shifted awkwardly on the bed, looking at everything in the room but Harry. “You talked sometimes,” Zayn said. “About Tessa, and in the Common Tongue. I assumed you were asking for the direwolf, so I had her brought here. But then you talked about Jack, Autumn, and Luke. I thought they might’ve been people you knew — people from Holmes. But when I asked Niall, he said they were characters from popular stories. The Knight-Errant’s Tales, he called them.”

“Again — is that all?” Harry asked.

Zayn shook his head. “No,” he admitted. “Then — uh. You also talked about — I don’t know. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Zayn — ”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Zayn interrupted, voice sharp and final. “You — you were sick and rambling. And it doesn’t matter, because you’re awake and lucid now. You’re awake and you’re _with me_.”

“I am with you,” Harry said. “You, my dear, lovely husband, who is keeping secrets from me.”

Zayn opened his mouth to protest, but there was a knock, preempting him. Zayn turned and made his way to the door, throwing it open and standing back as a servant girl made her way into the room, pushing a cart of food. There was an entire fowl, buttered potatoes, greens, and thick, fluffy rolls of bread. And then there was a pitcher of water and a lager full of ale. Harry realized with a start that it was like the cuisine from his homeland, familiar, hearty fare that was at such odds with the light, sweet dishes that were so common here in the capital. 

“Compliments of the Misses Jenner,” the servant girl said. “Please let me know if you need anything else.”

The girl walked out of the door, closing it quietly behind her. Zayn began assembling a plate, refusing to let Harry handle anything himself. Instead, Zayn insisted on catering to Harry, spoon-feeding him small bites of fowl and potatoes and holding the pitcher of water while he drank. 

“You still need to tell me what I’ve missed,” Harry said as he chewed. “Don’t you dare think you’ve distracted me from whatever it is you’re hiding.”

Zayn hummed noncommittally, pushing food around the perimeter of the plate. “You’ve just woken up half an hour ago. Gods know how the Jenners were able to put all of this food together for you so fast.”

“Zayn, I’m not going to break,” Harry replied. “I already know that Justin was the one who engineered the fire. And I know that Tomlinson must’ve told you.”

Zayn put the utensils onto the plate with a sigh. For a few moments he busied himself, reassembling the tray with all the quiet and care of a man trying to avoid an uncomfortable, but inevitable, conversation. 

Finally, Zayn took Harry’s hands in his own, his skin soft but weathered from the burns. Harry rubbed the pads of his thumb over Zayn’s palm, marveling over the changes. He couldn’t wait to relearn Zayn’s body, to map all of the ways that it had transformed. Harry wanted to claim all of Zayn’s flaws for himself. 

Harry had always known Zayn to be beautiful and had learned to love him because of it, but there was something fragile and tenuous in his handsomeness now. There was a newfound ruggedness, an edge of danger and the unknown. Zayn’s mortality — and the fact that he had seemingly cheated death — somehow made him all the more appealing. He seemed simultaneously powerful and vulnerable because of it. Harry wanted to cherish him, protect him, even though Zayn hardly needed it.

“Louis came to me when you wouldn’t wake,” Zayn admitted. “He was terrified — was sure that Beiber had put a curse on you. And then he explained what had happened when he returned to court, the tale he was starting to put together. My father had Bieber arrested. Almost immediately people began to step forward with evidence. Even one of Bieber’s former mistresses spoke out against him.” Zayn paused, his eyes fixed on his and Harry’s joined hands. “The trial started last week.”

“Have you gone to watch?” Harry asked. “Where is the trail being held — at court?”

“Why would I go?” Zayn demanded. “That assassin is still out there, Harry. You are still in danger. My duty is to you — not to some silly trial where my father has all but decided the outcome.”

“Why should you go? Because you’re the future king? Because he used to be your friend? Because you were a victim of his treachery? There are a multitude of reasons why you should be there, Zayn,” Harry tried. “Have you really been holed up with me this whole time?”

“Yes. I’ve been worried about you,” Zayn said. “About this curse, about the men who are hellbent on killing you. My father did ask if I wanted to serve on the committee for Beiber’s trial — if I wanted to be the representative for our noblemen — but I’m too closely invested in the outcome.”

“And your father can be impartial?” Harry scoffed. “That’s not what this is about and you know it.”

Zayn didn’t roll his eyes, but Harry knew that his husband’s annoyance was growing. He was obviously stressed, his skin pallid, dark circles smudged underneath once bright hazel eyes. It was clear that his resolve had been slowly crumbling under the barrage of horrifying and unanticipated events — an attempt on his and Harry’s lives, tumult in the kingdom, Harry’s illness, the betrayal of one of his oldest friends. It was no wonder that he had retreated, not only literally, but within himself. Harry probably would’ve gone mad if he were in Zayn’s shoes.

“Then what is it about, Harry?” Zayn whispered.

“It’s about you showing your face and letting your kingdom know that you can’t be cowed,” Harry said. “It’s about you _being there_ , Zayn.”

Zayn sighed, but he didn’t let go of Harry’s hand. “What would you have me do then?”

“ _We_ are going to begin plotting our return to the castle,” Harry answered. “ _We’re_ not going to sit here and hide. We’ll show our face at the trial, and together we’ll take it from there.”

“Is that really what you want, Harry?”

“Yes.”

Zayn squeezed Harry’s palm and nodded, first to himself, and then while meeting Harry’s eyes. “Okay. Yes. We can do that.”

“Do you promise?” Harry insisted. “Or are you going to keep making decisions on our behalf without consulting me?”

Zayn blinked and titled his head in silent consideration. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, were you ever going to tell me about you and Louis’ silly little plot?” Zayn stared, his face a mask. After a moment of awkward silence, Harry clarified, “Tomlinson said that you told him to publicly accuse me of starting the fire.”

Zayn was quiet for another protracted moment. Harry waited for him to speak, as patiently as he could manage. When Zayn finally spoke, his words were low and directed more to his lap than to Harry. “Please don’t be mad.”

Harry slipped his fingers from Zayn’s grasp with a sneer. “Don’t be _mad_? What the fuck, Zayn!”

“I told him that people would probably suspect you,” Zayn answered, his words tumbling out of his mouth with a desperation and earnestness Harry hadn’t encountered from him before. “I just kept thinking that you were an outsider — a foreigner. You had burned my papers before. There are servants who knew that, people at court who had heard the story and most certainly spread the gossip. I wasn’t thinking rationally. I was — I was in pain, delirious. I thought that it might be best to pre-empt the rumors. I didn’t know that Louis would misinterpret — that he would run with it the way he did.”

“What else would he do, Zayn?” Harry asked. “He hates me and you told him to start a horrible rumor about me. What in the world were you _thinking_?”

Zayn reached for Harry’s wrist but Harry snatched his arm away, almost falling off the bed in the process. He righted himself before pushing himself out of the bed entirely, standing against the wall. His legs were weak, but he steadied himself and wrapped his arms around his chest defensively. Zayn watched Harry with large, pleading eyes, but Harry remained firm with himself, told himself not to give into Zayn’s supplications just because he was pretty.

“Nobody was talking to me, you know,” Harry said. “Everyone at court was avoiding me — afterwards. I thought that if I proved myself, did what Tomlinson demanded, that things would go back to normal. But they didn’t. They still haven’t, Zayn.”

Zayn reached out to Harry, his hands open and seeking. “ _Harry —_ ”

“Nothing’s gone back to normal, Zayn,” Harry said. “Nothing is normal anymore. I’ve had nightmares ever since I ate that damn heart. Every fucking night. All I can dream about is blood. Sometimes I wake up and can still feel the gore on my tongue. I’ve felt half-mad, and now I know that there must be something wrong, if I can have a dream that lasts a fortnight. And it’s all because of _you_.”

“ _Please_ , Harry,” Zayn begged. “Come back to bed and let me explain.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t want your explanation,” he said. “I just want you to make it right. So go.”

“Harry — ” 

“ _Go_ , Zayn.”

Surprisingly, Zayn did as Harry asked, and left.

 

Zayn gave Harry his space over the next few days, communicating to his husband primarily through Kevin, but he also energetically set himself to the tasks Harry had demanded of him. Zayn began making inquiries to his father, first asking whether he and Harry could return to the castle and find new rooms while the renovations to their previous quarters continued, and then asking whether he and Harry could attend the trial. 

King Yaser outright denied Zayn’s request to return to the palace, saying that it was still unsafe for the time being, but he appeared more ambivalent about having Zayn and Harry at the trial. For one, trials were something of a production in the capital, and a high treason case — particularly one against a baron — was rare and therefore the talk of the city. Zayn and Harry’s presence would require additional security and the likely removal of at least a dozen spectators. King Yaser seemed uncertain whether it would be worth the hassle, but Harry felt confident that Zayn could persuade his father to their side.

In the meantime, Harry kept himself preoccupied with his children. Joshua and Sarah’s room were right beside Harry’s in the Jenner home, and he spent long hours watching over Sarah’s studies and setting Joshua on the ground, encouraging him to walk. The baby had seemingly skipped the crawling phase entirely, instead pulling himself up against furniture, clapping his hands in excitement, and then falling right back onto his bottom. 

Harry was spending his evening in such a fashion — sitting with Eleanor and listening to Sarah’s recitations while Joshua played and babbled to himself — when Kevin knocked on the door, popping his head into the room.

“The King called down,” Kevin said. “He would like to speak with you in the courtyard.”

Harry gulped. “With — with me?”

Kevin’s face went carefully blank, as though he were trying very hard to refrain from rolling his eyes. “Yes, Your Highness. With you.”

“Oh shit,” Harry muttered, standing. The baby turned toward Harry, making soft gurgling noises and extending his arms, clearly expecting to be picked up. When Harry turned away, the baby promptly burst into tears, his features puckering as he wailed. Eleanor rushed over to Joshua, settling the boy on her hip and rubbing the his back in an attempt to settle him.

Sarah looked up from her sheets and watched Harry with keen eyes. “Is everything okay, Your Highness?” she asked. “You said a naughty word.”

“I’m fine. And you know you don’t have to call me that,” Harry reminded Sarah. “You can call me ‘Harry’ or whatever you like.”

“I like to call you ‘Your Highness,’” Sarah answered with a shrug. “And I believe you if you say you’re all right.”

“I am,” Harry said, but he wasn’t sure whether he was trying to assure Sarah or himself.

“Your Highness,” Kevin called. “The King is still waiting.”

Harry took a long, bracing breath and followed Kevin out the room.

 

Kevin led Harry down narrow, winding corridors and past closed doors. Every time Harry left his room and traversed down these hallways, he recalled the night he ate a horse heart. His memories of that evening were now bathed in blood, shaded by the taste of gushing copper. But the other thing Harry distinctly recalled was how the Jenner home had seemed like a labyrinth of dark hallways and old oil paintings, the type of building someone could get lost in.

But Kevin never seemed anything but sure of himself as he guided Harry through the corridors. And so finally, after what seemed like long, uneventful minutes, they were in the courtyard where Harry had performed the ceremony. It seemed far less ominous in the light of day, without people staring at Harry and goading him on. Now, under the sharp rays of sunlight, it looked like any other green space, bordered on all sides by the walls of a great, looming house.

And in the middle of it stood King Yaser, two of his own personal soldiers watching him inconspicuously. 

“I’ll wait for you here,” Kevin said. “Have a good talk, Your Highness.”

Harry nodded at Kevin, clapping his shoulder and feeling a surge of gratefulness for the young soldier. For not the first time, Harry wondered how he would ever be able to repay Kevin for all of his faithful service. 

But that was neither here nor there. Harry needed to talk to his father-in-law, the King.

Harry took a deep breath, threw back his shoulders, and walked into the courtyard. 

 

Harry still vividly recalled his last substantial conversation with King Yaser. 

“ _Your Grace, you do not think that I was the one behind the fire, do you_?” Harry had asked.

The King had not indicated one way or the other. He had just stared at Harry and scolded him for wasting away at Zayn’s side.

Harry _did not_ want a repeat of that conversation. He wanted King Yaser on his side and he wanted a healthy, loving relationship with his husband’s father. Harry did not think that was too much to ask.

King Yaser smiled when he caught sight of Harry across the courtyard. The King strode over to Harry in several quick steps, pulling Harry into a crushing hug that felt surprisingly warm and enveloping. When King Yaser pulled back, there actually appeared to be relief in his eyes.

“You gave us quite a fright there, son,” King Yaser said.

“I — ”

“It’s no matter,” King Yaser interrupted. “Come. Zayn tells me that you want to attend Lord Bieber’s trial?”

Harry nodded, following King Yaser as he began to walk around the perimeter of the courtyard. “I do, Your Majesty. I want both Zayn and myself to attend.”

“And do you think that you are healthy enough?” King Yaser continued. “I’m not just talking physically. You were the victim of a dark, mysterious illness only several days ago.”

“I admit that I do not know the origin and nature of my illness,” Harry said. “But I do currently feel well enough to sit and watch the trial.”

“Well, if you are certain that you are healthy enough to attend, then I see no reason to bar your presence,” King Yaser said. “I will speak to my men about making the necessary preparations. But that is not why I asked to speak with you.”

Harry stuttered, “It — it isn’t, Your Majesty?”

“No, it is not,” King Yaser sighed. “I asked to speak with you so I could apologize. I am an old man, Harry. And old men are notorious for their mistakes. I assumed that you were exploiting divisions that, realistically, you knew nothing about. And for that assumption, as well as all of the tremendous, avoidable grief I have caused you, I apologize.”

Harry paused before speaking, feeling almost as though he were in a daze. He didn’t really have any expectations out of this conversation with King Yaser, but an apology still caught him entirely off guard. “I accept your apology,” Harry finally answered, the words tumbling from his lips in a torrent. “But I’m afraid I don’t entirely understand what you’re referencing, Your Majesty.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” the King murmured, following his words with a small, but humorless, chuckle. “And again, I must apologize. You see, before you arrived last year, it was decided that we would keep you ignorant of many of the — ahem — _challenges_ that are part and parcel of ruling this kingdom. Surely we would explain things to you if and when they came up, but we would make no conscious effort to point out these divisions. This was before your mother was killed and before that spineless oaf George made his clutch for power, during a time where we were still not entirely certain what threat, if any, you would pose. Several of my advisors thought it plausible that you would make a play for the throne the moment you arrived, and we did not want to make it easy for you. But it is clear in retrospect that we need not have worried. You swore allegiance to my son and to the throne, and in the months that have passed, you have proven time and time again that your first priority is Zayn, and now the children you have selected as your heirs. And for that, I must thank you.

“But, as you have already certainly begun to deduce on your own, there are true factions within this great kingdom. These sects existed long before even I arrived.” King Yaser paused, turning to Harry and frowning. “Do you know the story of my arrival, son?”

Harry resisted the urge to shrug. He was talking to the fucking King, damn it. He had better manners. “I know bits and pieces from my bodyguard.”

King Yaser pursed his lips in contemplation. “I see. Well, it’s somewhat of a long story, but I think it is time you heard the tale. Shall we sit?”

Harry nodded and together they made their way to a bench in the middle of the courtyard. Harry pulled his robe off, folding it and placing it in his lap. The midday sun felt like a welcome relief on his shoulders and Harry gave himself a moment to bask in it, closing his eyes and raising his face skyward. He would probably burn if he sat out for too long, but he hardly cared.

“My arrival was not too dissimilar from yours,” King Yaser started, his normally booming voice quieter, more introspective. “But my father was not a King in the way you would think of it — a man who sits on a chair and makes decrees day in and day out. My father was the son of a pirate, and when he reached manhood he became a mariner, and then the captain of a large fleet. He was not comfortable unless he was at the hull of a ship. I suppose he was not too dissimilar from the Iron-born Westerosi. 

“Like them, he was elected as King. And so he ruled the seas for many years, granting both me and my sister our own boats to captain.

“My father met Queen Trisha’s father in the middle of that great war that has served as a specter during so much of our lives. They traded frequently, my father providing cereals to sustain the troops in exchange for some of the kingdom’s rare treasures — silks, books, spices, and the like. As they got to know each other, the two men began lamenting over their children, as parents are wont to do. Queen Trisha provided her father a fair amount of trouble, particularly as the King’s only living heir. She was completely uninterested in assuming the throne, and she had recently become pregnant out of wedlock. The man who sired her son was forced out of court, and no high-class man was willing to take her — and a bastard son — on, crown or no.

“My father was similarly displeased with me. He said that I did not appear to have an interest in the seafaring life — which I didn’t — and that I was causing a great deal of trouble with some of his men, implanting them with ridiculous ideas about establishing our own land community — which I was. It took many moons, but eventually the two men reached an agreement. I would marry Queen Trisha and bring my troublemaker countrymen to Jinan with me.

“And so I arrived and married Trisha. My countrymen were permitted to enter the kingdom, but they were quickly forced out of the capital. And so here I was — a Prince without subjects, married to a Princess with low social standing and an exiled bastard son. It seemed like we were doomed from the start. But then Trisha’s father died unexpectedly, and everything changed.”

King Yaser took a deep breath, squinting up at the sun. Harry was suddenly struck by how much Zayn favored his father. They had the same fine bone structure — high cheekbones, a sloping nose, eyes that reminded Harry of portraits of sand dunes. Harry wondered if Zayn would be as dignified as King Yaser was, even with the crushing weight of the crown on his head. 

“Trisha and I had only been married for a few years when her father passed. Doniya and Zayn were both toddlers. There had been no real discussion of succession, and Trisha’s mother was determined unfit to rule. And, as I’m sure you know from your own family’s history, the news of the King’s passing reached Holmes quickly. It was a moment of great reckoning for our kingdom, one that many assumed Trisha and I were unprepared to take.

“But I assumed the throne nonetheless. Me — an outsider. A foreigner. A man that many did not even consider worthy of being Trisha’s Prince Consort. I forged a name for myself, and resumed a foothold within the war, and I did this by studying the country’s factions and exploiting their weaknesses. 

“What you probably don’t know is that Trisha descends from a Westerosi house,” King Yaser admitted. “This is a secret that has been preciously guarded for generations. Her forefathers left not long after the Long Winter and the war against the Others. They arrived here — to a land that they didn’t know existed, the continent at the edge of the world. But they stayed, and they intermarried with the existing populations, and eventually they rose to prominence in the city of Jinan, overthrowing the previous royal dynasty. They turned their eyes back towards Westeros, casting their desires over the newly established kingdom of Holmes, and they declared war on a territory they had never quite stopped believing was their own.

“But the royal family never had the support of the entire kingdom when they launched this war. Powerful noblemen — the Healys, the Biebers, the Swifts — and individual warrior chieftains — the Edwards and the Hadids — withheld their support and continued squabbling amongst themselves. When I assumed the throne, my first order of business was approaching each of these houses and unifying our efforts. This was easier said than done. There are strong ethnic, linguistic, and religious divides between each of these houses, disagreements and misunderstandings that go back hundreds of years. I also had to overcome their own perceptions that I was an interloper, the savage son of a pirate who married a sullied princess. I had to show them that there were things to be gained if we could all come together.

“It took years, but I was successful in my efforts. I invited these families to my court and allowed them onto my personal council. I introduced them to men of commerce, to mercenaries, to weapons manufacturers, and encouraged them to make investments. I hosted their betrothals and weddings. I cultivated relationships between my children and their own, including promising one of their daughters to my cherished son and heir. And, perhaps most importantly, I promised them the spoils of war once we defeated our new enemy — Holmes.”

“You were successful for years,” Harry said, the picture becoming clear before his eyes. “My father always said you were a masterful tactician. But despite all of your plans, everything fell apart.”

“Everything fell apart,” King Yaser agreed. “Particularly when I united with Holmes, promised you to Zayn, and presented these factions with a brand new enemy to unite behind.”

Harry took a deep breath, rubbing the silk of his robes between his fingers. “Is that what this is all about, then?” he asked. “It’s not about me, not really. I’m just a symbol of deeper dissatisfaction with other houses and tribes?”

“It’s hard to be certain without a confession from Bieber,” King Yaser replied. “But the young man was very unhappy when the betrothal became official. He made disparaging remarks about you, but he also made comments about my lineage and the virtue of the Queen — treasonous comments that I wanted to punish then and there, but didn’t out of fear of starting a civil war. Some of these families have very strong ties to each other, both positive and negative. I cannot begin to dream where Bieber procured the money to hire an assassin, but I would not be surprised if he tapped into long-festering dissatisfaction — both with other houses, and with me. And for that, Harry, I am so, so, _so_ very sorry.”

Harry nodded, chewing his lip. “I don’t need you to be sorry, Your Majesty,” Harry said. “I just need you to make this right.”

“And how do you suggest that I do that?”

“By guaranteeing that Bieber is found guilty,” Harry said. “By finding the rest of his conspirators. And by making sure none of them are executed.”

King Yaser turned in his seat and frowned at Harry. “Did — did I hear you correctly, son?”

Harry smiled, small but genuine. “You did, Your Majesty. I don’t want a man’s death hanging over my head. Nor do I want Bieber to become a martyr for these people. Death can be honorable when it is in advance of a greater cause. I would rather he was stripped of his title and exiled. There is nothing honorable about becoming a tramp. And my mother always said it was better to have the people see you as merciful than severe and uncompromising.”

King Yaser considered Harry for a long moment. Harry wondered what his father-in-law saw in him, whether he thought Harry was mad and naive. Whatever he thought, the King stood, tossing his shoulders back and looking like every bit the monarch he was — the monarch he had fought to become. He turned toward Harry, extending his hand. “I will do my best to fulfill your wishes,” the King promised. 

Harry smiled and reached up for King Yaser’s hand. King Yaser pulled Harry from the bench and walked him back to his room. 

 

It was another two days before Harry and Zayn were granted permission to attend the trial. A condition of their presence was that each boy needed to provide at least two personal guards in addition to the standing soldiers that followed them about from location to location. Zayn re-appointed Liam as Harry’s second bodyguard, and Harry did nothing more than grumble under his breath at Zayn’s decision. Harry was the one that had wanted to go to the trial, after all. He would make himself deal with Liam.

Trials in Jinan were a strange phenomenon to Harry. In Holmes, the outcomes of trials were typically determined by kings or religious men, or settled by combat. Here, evidence was heard by a jury of seven, all respectable representatives of different sectors within society. There was always a magi and a merchant, a religious man and a professor, a commoner and a nobleman, and then finally a reformed man — a criminal who had confessed his sins before the gods and had since been deemed pious by his neighbors. These seven judged the quality of testimony and evidence and provided a verdict. 

And, ultimately, the decision of punishment rested with King Yaser.

Harry reminded himself of this process as he was escorted into the courtroom located near the city university. It was large and circular like an amphitheater, with sloping seats and a central space for the seven, King Yaser, and the accused. Harry and Zayn were granted seats toward the back of the room, but they were not seated directly next to each other. Harry tossed Zayn a long, baleful glance, and settled in for a long day of evidence.

 

Harry did not see Shahid until it was almost midday. The man was sitting on the other side of the courtroom next to Lady Hadid. Even from a distance, Harry could tell that the man was wearing a gaudy, golden ring on each of his fingers. Disgust unfurled in Harry’s stomach, coiling and wrapping itself around his insides. 

Harry had almost forgotten about Shahid, preoccupied as he was with the trial, Zayn, and the children. But Harry hadn’t forgotten the words Shahid had said to Justin in his vision: “ _He is no one_. _May you both be successful in your efforts_.”

It took everything in Harry not to stand and make a scene, to scream and curse Shahid for his abominable crime. But who would believe Harry if he accused the merchant of such treachery? Harry would be ridiculed if he told the truth — that he had seen Shahid’s treason in a dream, a vision so vivid it had left him unconscious for days. Briana the barmaid had not seen Shahid at The Old Inn that night. The assassin himself was long gone and would probably never be found. And, according to a merchant’s testimony from several days ago, Bieber had made a large withdrawal from his accounts two moons prior, but that was were the trail of gold ended.

Harry was the _only one_ who knew that Shahid was a traitor.

Harry closed his eyes and took a series of deep, steadying breaths, attempting to reason with himself. On the one hand, he could do nothing, and live in perpetual fear that Shahid’s ill will would never make itself known again.

Or, Harry could take action. He could remember the heart he had consumed. “ _They say if you eat a heart and are of a pure heart yourself, you gain courage_ ,” Louis had said once. Perhaps Harry just needed to remember what he was capable of, and find strength in what he had already accomplished.

 

Harry waited until there was a recess in the day’s testimony. People stood and chatted with their neighbors. Some stretched. Others went outside to buy food from the vendors who were taking advantage of the hungry, tired, and well-paying noblemen who had traveled to Jinan to witness the trial. 

Harry found Shahid in the crowd again. The man stood and turned to Lady Hadid, gesturing toward doors that led to a small courtyard. Only several people had access to this courtyard, including royal family and select members of the nobility that Zayn and his father had vetted as trusted friends. It infuriated Harry to think that Shahid had so thoroughly violated Zayn’s trust.

“I need to speak with Shahid,” Harry said, turning to Liam and Kevin and standing. He glowered at the two men when they stood as well. “I need to speak with him _alone_.”

Kevin and Liam both shook their head, almost in unison. “We can’t let you do that,” Liam said. “We’re both under strict orders to keep you in our sight at all times.”

“Under whose orders?”

Kevin looked at Harry as though he were particularly dense. “Prince Zayn’s, of course.”

“He’s heading toward the courtyard,” Harry protested. “Only Zayn’s friends — ”

“We’re currently standing at the trial of a man who tried to kill you,” Kevin pointed out. “There are several people in attendance who sympathize with him, whether they admit it or not, whether they are close to Zayn or not. Zayn knows that and you should be aware of that as well. You’re not speaking to _anyone_ alone.”

Harry turned, his eyes seeking out Shahid again. He was making his way through the crowd, but he was still several yards from the doorway. Harry could still corner him if he moved quickly.

“A compromise,” Harry proposed. “Shahid and I speak in the courtyard, you two bar anyone else from entering, and you stay out of earshot.”

“Harry — ” Liam protested.

“You do that, and I promise not to run away or misbehave,” Harry said. “ _Please_.”

Liam sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Fine. But you get five minutes with him. Not a moment more.”

“Deal,” Harry said, and he darted through the crowd, catching Shahid just as he made his way into the courtyard.

 

The wooden door thudded heavily behind Harry. Shahid turned toward the noise, his eyes indicating nothing but mild surprise.

“A word, if you please?”

Shahid inclined his head and smiled, polite as always. “Of course, Your Highness.” He hardly even spared a glance at Liam standing some feet behind them next to the door, his sword at his hip. 

Harry tilted his head and returned Shahid’s grin, wondering how a relative stranger could hate him enough to help engineer his murder.

“I know that you were involved in Justin’s scheme,” Harry said without preamble. “I know that you’re just as guilty as he is and that we should be trying you today for high treason as well.”

It was a minute change, but Harry was prepared to look for it. So he caught it when Shahid blanched, and he noticed how the man seemed to remember himself, tossing his head back and scoffing.

“Silly boy,” Shahid said. “Are all you Westerosi so paranoid?”

“I know that you paid an assassin that you thought was a Faceless Man,” Harry countered. “I know that you met Justin and the assassin at The Old Inn. And I also know that your assassin was no true, skilled worshiper of the Many-Faced God, because if he was, I would not be standing before you today.”

Shahid went still. He appeared gobsmacked, staring at Harry with wide, unbelieving eyes. 

And then he deflated, this man with a big, boisterous personality shriveling down to nothing. It shouldn’t have made Harry feel so pleased.

“You should’ve known this as well,” Harry continued. “Death comes at a price, and I can only assume how high the price would be for my demise — the Prince Consort of Jinan, the true born Prince of Holmes. They would ask for something truly dear to you — maybe all of those ridiculous rings you always wear.”

“Please, Your Highness,” Shahid tried. “I had no clue — ”

“No clue of what?” Harry asked. “That Justin was trying to kill me?”

“Of course not!” Shahid said. “He just — all he said was that we needed to work together — to cleanse the throne — ”

“ _Cleanse the throne_?” Harry repeated.

“Rid the throne of outsiders,” Shahid said. “Restore the kingdom to its former glory. Princess Doniya’s husband — ”

“And King Yaser, and me,” Harry said. “All outsiders. Do you think I’m a complete dunce, Shahid?”

“No!” Shahid exclaimed. “Of course not, Your Highness. I only — I just — ”

“I don’t have time for your lies,” Harry said. “The Prince hasn’t yet discovered your treachery. And I won’t tell him if you pick up your things and leave right now.”

Shahid peered at Harry as though he were a strange and exotic beast. “Pardon?”

“You heard me.” 

Shahid sputtered, “But — but _why_? Why spare my life? You have every reason to demand my head, just as Prince Zayn will most certainly collect Bieber’s.”

“I don’t want your blood on my hands,” Harry said. “I just want you gone. So consider this a blessing. You’ve been granted the opportunity to start anew.”

Shahid opened and closed his mouth like a gasping fish. “Y-yes,” he murmured. “I shall, Your Highness. R-right away.”

Shahid turned to go, all of the life and color sucked out of him. 

“And Shahid?” Harry called. Shahid looked up, his hands trembling. He looked expectant, almost like he was hoping Harry was going to tell him that he didn’t need to leave. Foolish. “If you’re still in Jinan by nightfall, I will send Liam after you. I once saw him open a man with one strike, from shoulder to groin. I can only imagine what he would do to you, given the chance.”

Shahid nodded and all but bolted from the courtyard. Liam let the man pass and then stared at Harry, his face void of emotion.

“I know you heard all of it,” Harry said. “So much for out of earshot.”

“I did,” Liam admitted. 

“Don’t tell Zayn.”

Liam shook his head. “I should. _I have to_. He’s my Prince as much as you, and Shahid deserves to be tried. Hell, he deserves to be executed — “

“Liam,” Harry interrupted. “This isn’t a request. You want to earn my trust again? Then _don’t tell Zayn_. I meant what I said. I refuse to have a man’s blood on my hands.”

Liam watched Harry for a long, solemn moment, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Then he nodded.

Harry exhaled, long and sweet, and sat in the courtyard until the recess concluded.

 

The trial dragged on for another fortnight. The seven representatives reviewed the evidence against Bieber before giving his counsel the opportunity to present its case. Harry, who had assumed such an event would be enthralling, found himself spending most of the hours daydreaming while witness after witness came forward with dull, increasingly repetitive commentary — another merchant who tended to the Bieber accounts, his former friends at court, the servants in his home, and his mistresses, both past and present. 

Hailey Baldwin, Bieber’s most recent paramour, caused quite the spectacle, bursting into tears in the middle of her testimony and loudly proclaiming that “Justin would never do such a horrid thing!” Her father eventually had to peel her from her seat and lead her out of the courtroom. 

Harry couldn’t help but look over at Bieber’s wife, Selena, during the middle of the Baldwin girl’s tantrum. Selena stared straight ahead, head held high, looking prim and composed, with Taylor and Eleanor bracketing her. Harry wondered what she could possibly be feeling, having her marriage dissected and mocked by strangers and loved ones alike, watching her feckless, useless husband stand trial for treason.

Selena looked over at Harry, perhaps feeling his eyes on her. Harry met her gaze guiltily, but Selena only smiled before reaffixing her gaze to the front of the room.

 

Finally, the trial drew to a close. The jury retired to discuss the evidence, but they did not deliberate for very long. Harry, Zayn, and their retinue had only just returned to the Jenner home when they received a raven announcing that the jury had reached a decision and would declare their verdict the following morning.

And so Harry awoke on a bright, sunny day and dressed himself, wondering whether the day would conclude with an execution.

 

Liam led Harry into the courtroom, with Kevin following behind them. Zayn was already seated with his bodyguards standing around him, and he smiled wanly when he saw Harry.

“Can I sit with my husband today?” Harry asked. Liam nodded and Harry took his seat, smiling when Zayn reached over to link their hands together.

The jury filed in once the doors to the courtroom were closed and sealed. Harry watched their arrival. Here were seven unassuming men who had been granted the power to determine life and death. Harry did not envy the task that had been placed before them, but he prayed to the gods that they — and the King — would do the right thing.

King Yaser came behind them, his crown gleaming in the morning sun, and took his seat at the head of the room. 

And then, finally, Bieber was shepherded in, his hands bound in front of him. Guards deposited him in front of King Yaser’s throne without much fanfare and then stood at his sides, faces impassive.

“Jury, you have called us all here today,” King Yaser said, his voice carrying throughout the room. “Have you reached a decision to be read before gods and men?”

“Your Majesty, the jury has reached a decision,” the magi stated, standing and brandishing a piece of parchment with a flourish. “We seven — representatives of our kingdom — have reviewed the evidence and testimony. We have searched within our hearts and our minds, and reached our determination unanimously, with the blessing and guidance of the gods.” 

King Yaser nodded. “Please announce your decision before the assembled, sir.”

The magi nodded and cleared his throat. “The accused, Lord Justin Bieber, Baron and Guardian of the River Tribes, has been found guilty of the crimes of high treason, attempted murder, arson, and perjury.”

A low murmur spread throughout the room. Zayn inhaled sharply, his face twisting with emotions Harry could not quite decipher. Harry squeezed his hand reassuringly, but Zayn continued to grimace, his hand becoming slick and clammy with sweat.

“And what is the recommended punishment for such heinous crimes, sir?” the King continued.

“Death, Your Majesty,” the old man replied. “A public death by hanging, drawing, and quartering.”

The low buzz suddenly erupted into louder outcry. There were demands for Bieber’s immediate execution, cries that the ghastly punishment didn’t seem harsh enough, and shrill pleas for mercy from one of Bieber’s many mistresses. 

Bieber’s wife, Selena, fainted, her swooning attracting the attention of half the room. Matty and Taylor immediately leapt to her aid, fanning her until she roused, and then leading her from the room. 

Bieber himself burst into tears, attempting to shield his stricken face behind his bound hands.

King Yaser clapped, calling for silence. It took several long, tense moments for the chatter to die down, but when it did, all eyes were on the King where he sat before them all, furious and resplendent in his purple robes.

“The punishment for high treason is death,” King Yaser reiterated. “A heinous death, to match an equally heinous crime. Lord Bieber — a man whose title was bequeathed to him on his seventeenth name day by my magnanimous son — betrayed his kingdom, his family, and his friend when he planned the murder of our Prince Consort. Due to the philanthropy of the gods, Lord Bieber failed in his efforts, but he did burn my son and cause great distress to our entire kingdom. This is a crime I cannot abide.

“But, I must admit, I am tired of bloodshed,” King Yaser continued. “I have spent my entire adult life fighting a war and calculating the worth of other men’s lives. After years of ignoring my own spiritual health and neglecting my relationship with the gods, I am finally learning the virtues of benevolence. So instead of death, I am instead calling for the stripping of Lord Bieber’s titles and lands, his annulment from Lady Selena, and his immediate exile.”

King Yaser turned directly to Bieber, sneering at the man’s sniveling and pathetic tears. “Be grateful, traitor,” King Yaser rumbled. “The only reason your life has been spared is thanks to the generosity of the Prince you attempted to kill. My only hope is that you live out the rest of your days in squalor and ignominy.”

With that, King Yaser stood and swept out of the courtroom, his advisors and soldiers forming a shield around him. 

The entire room devolved into chaos as they tried to make sense of King Yaser’s decree, but the noise was little more than distant thundering to Harry’s ears.

Bieber was formally exiled, just as Harry forced Shahid’s removal, and Princess Perrie’s before that. _And_ King Yaser had publicly acknowledged that his decision to spare Bieber’s life was influenced by Harry’s request. 

The threats to King Yaser’s rule — and consequently to Harry and Zayn’s aspirations — had been neutralized and they could return to court and be a family once more.

In light of this ruling, Harry would be regarded by the common folk as fair and generous. They would talk about him reverentially, tell the tale of how Harry greeted traitors with mercy. Discussions of Harry as the Prince Brat would vanish in the wind.

_He’d won_.

Liam jostled Harry, pulling him up by the collar and gesturing for him to make his way out. Harry sighed but did as he was bid, keeping a hand on Kevin’s waist as he was separated from Zayn and shepherded out of the room.

“Something is wrong,” Kevin said under his breath. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked. “We caught the traitor and King Yaser is sending him away. Don’t tell me you think that we should have had the man hanged and disemboweled — ”

“We caught _one_ traitor,” Kevin interrupted, roughly shoving a dawdling spectator out of the way. “ _One_ traitor is being sent away. You know as well as I that Bieber hardly has the brains or the funds to hire an assassin. That withdrawal damn near depleted his accounts. He wasn’t the only one involved in this. He wasn’t even the mastermind. Whoever that is — whoever these co-conspirators are — they are still free and they are still plotting. This is just the beginning, Your Highness. We need to increase security and move from the Jenner house before they realize you’re there.”

Harry wanted to speak out, wanted to confide in Kevin that he knew who the other perpetrator was and that it was _handled_ , but then he would have to explain how he had discovered Shahid’s guilt and why he hadn’t taken the matter to Zayn and the King. How could Harry explain a certainty that led to more questions than answers? It was best that Harry just kept his stupid mouth shut.

So he followed Kevin to his carriage and resolved to do just that.

 

Harry and Zayn arrived at the Jenner house within several minutes of each other, but Zayn tended to a few errands while Harry went back to his room and called down to his servants to draw a bath. He lolled in the water for a long time, relaxing while servants washed his hair, scrubbed his feet, and fetched him wine. It was an extravagance Harry didn’t frequently subscribe to, but he was feeling indulgent. King Yaser did as he promised. He removed a threat to his rule and to Harry and Zayn’s security without having to take a single life. Harry was sure he was allowed to celebrate the occasion.

Zayn seemed similarly jubilant when he finally returned to his and Harry’s rooms several hours later. He smelled similarly freshly washed, like lilac, and he greeted Harry with a kiss that tasted sweet like wine.

“What are your plans for the night?” Zayn asked, cupping Harry’s chin in one of his scarred hands. “The Jenner girls have requested our presence for dinner. They promise another excellent meal full of delicacies from Holmes.”

Harry raised an interested eyebrow. “Have they? That’s sweet of them.”

“They have their moments,” Zayn remarked wryly. “So you would like to grace them with our presence?”

“Unless you have other thoughts?”

Zayn grinned, dropping his hand to ghost teasing fingers down Harry’s chest. “I must admit I was hoping to keep you otherwise occupied all night.”

Harry gasped when Zayn’s wandering palm found Harry’s crotch, giving him a playful squeeze. Gods, it had been so long since the last time they’d been together. Harry’s body was responding almost entirely of its own volition. “Are you sure you’re well enough?”

“I won’t break,” Zayn said. “ _Please_ , Harry. I want to. Let me see you.”

Harry took Zayn into his arms and it felt like a homecoming, as though they had both returned from some great odyssey and were relearning each others ticks and tells. This _was_ a reunion of sorts — Harry arriving from the theater that was his nightmares, Zayn from the burned ruins of their castle. Harry smoothed fabric from Zayn’s body and let his gaze sweep over the new lines and planes of flesh, over the scars and tight, leathery skin. Harry missed Zayn’s tattoos, the dark, swirling designs that decorated his flesh. The fire had slashed through the ink in places, warped the design in others, but Harry couldn’t help but think that Zayn was a phoenix now, glorious in his rebirth by flame.

Zayn’s touch was equally tentative, as though he couldn’t believe Harry was there in front of him, eager and waiting. He brushed the pads of his fingers over Harry’s lightly stubbled cheeks, down the column of his neck. He pressed his body flush against Harry’s and breathed him in, his heartbeat a steady chant.

Harry reclined on the bed and Zayn climbed on top of him, their mouths seeking and meeting on a shared groan. Harry glided his palms down the length of Zayn’s back, tracing the ridges of his spine. The juts of bone had always been familiar, just like the poke of Zayn’s hips, the weighty heft of his cock. It was comforting to know that there were some things fire could not change.

There was oil by their bed, and Harry slicked his fingers and set them to dancing between Zayn’s thighs. Zayn laid flush against Harry’s chest, moaning, loud and brash. He licked and bit Harry’s flesh in between his sweet exhalations, purpling the flesh with marks.

Zayn’s cock was hard and wet by the time Harry had three fingers inside him, crooked and pumping. Harry pulled out and Zayn pursed his lips in something bordering annoyance, his hair a matted mess of black and blonde, his eyes so dark he looked like something out of a nightmare.

Harry slicked his own erection and held it so that Zayn could slide down the length. He did so with a long stuttered moan, a “Ha-a-a-arry.” And then he wrapped his hands around himself, pumping as he clenched and fucked himself down onto Harry’s cock.

Harry dug his fingers into Zayn’s hips and forced his eyes to meet his husband’s. Looking at him like this felt a bit like stargazing, like Harry was falling headfirst into something beautiful, daunting, and sublime. And the glazed admiration in Zayn’s eyes led Harry to believe he was feeling the same way.

It was everything Harry needed, this moment of intense connection and longing, this knowing that Zayn was his in every meaning of the word. His companion, his lover, soon even his King. Harry was bowled over by Zayn’s greatness, by his intelligence and his composure and his grace.

They were fucking each other slow, pleasure and contentment building in a shared wave. Harry could feel his orgasm creep upon him, like the first searching tendrils of dawn, and he reached for Zayn’s hand where it was wrapped around his cock. Harry coerced Zayn into loosening his grip and instead laid Zayn’s hand upon the bed, thrusting upwards to meet Zayn’s downward filthy grind.

“Like this,” Harry huffed. “I want you to come like — ”

“Your Highness!” a voice called, the door to their room bursting open with a crack. Harry cursed, gripping himself at the base of his cock while Zayn screeched and pulled off him. Zayn dove underneath the blankets, wrapping himself in the fabric even as the skin of his cheeks turned a vibrant burgundy. Harry looked down at his body, at his hard cock still slick from oil, and his stomach, wet with Zayn’s precome, and tried not to cry out in frustration.

“Oh gods!” Niall exclaimed, his arm flung over his eyes. His cheeks were the same shade as a boiled lobster and his lips were downturned in obvious mortification. “Oh gods, I’m so sorry!”

“ _Seriously_? Have you ever thought about knocking once in your life?” Harry asked weakly. 

“Who let you come in here?” Zayn demanded, pushing sweaty strands away from his forehead. “Where’s Kevin and Liam?”

“They told me to watch over you while they got reinforcements, Your Highness,” Niall explained, still covering his eyes with his arm. “Just — just look outside the window.”

Zayn looked at Niall suspiciously before wrapping the blanket around his hips and standing. Harry gave himself a moment to admire Zayn’s broad back before he pushed himself off the bed as well. He didn’t feel any qualms about hiding his nudity, just went to stand behind Zayn at the window, nuzzling against his neck before letting his eyes take in the scene before him.

And when he did, the breath whooshed out of his lungs all at once.

There was smoke. So dark, black, and consuming that Harry wondered how they hadn’t already noticed the smell. It was pluming from the east, at a site outside of the city gates, near the river that cut through the surrounding villages. They couldn’t see the fire itself, hidden as it was by Jinan’s high walls, but Harry could only imagine how large and destructive it must be to generate such soot. 

“My gods,” Harry swore.

“Someone set fire to Lord Bieber’s home,” Niall said. “Our guess is that someone took matters into their own hands and guaranteed that he never left the capital.”

Harry looked down at his hands distantly, as if they were apart from him. He was unsurprised to note that they were shaking.

Zayn was still staring outside of the window. He was running warmer than usual, almost as though the sight of the plumes had awakened something in him. He looked unsurprised. Perhaps even excited. 

Suspicion zapped through Harry’s bloodstream so quickly it almost made him feel dizzy.

“Zayn, did you have something to do with this?” Harry bit out. “Did — did you tell someone to make sure Justin never got on a boat?”

Zayn tore his eyes from the window and looked at Harry. There was nothing on his face to read but the bitter truth, the sheer obviousness of his involvement. No wonder he wanted to have Harry tonight, to consummate his victory.

“Harry — ” he began.

“ _You did this_!” Harry gasped, spinning away from Zayn and falling back against the bed. Niall rushed over to him and put a comforting arm around his shoulder, but Harry hardly felt it under the onslaught of his rage. “How dare you!”

“What would you have done, if you were in my shoes?” Zayn countered. “There was no way I could take his head without starting a civil war.”

“You could’ve let him _leave_!” Harry said. “I asked your father. Bieber wasn’t a threat anymore. He was going to Essos — ”

“There’s no way you legitimately believe that,” Zayn scoffed. “He was just going to venture to the coast and start trouble there. He was going to find more idiots to support his delusions and he would’ve come back with an army to kill us both.”

Harry gaped at the man he had married, at the man he loved and trusted with his life, and wondered how he could speak so casually of murder. Harry felt like the ground below him was eroding, like everything he had once held sacred was crumbling to ash. 

Harry suddenly knew, with absolute clarity, that Justin was the body lying in his dreams, the traitor who Gigi had shot with her arrow. 

Harry could even _see it_ , how Gigi and Louis had rode their horses outside of the city gates, alongside a dozen or so of the Healy household’s soldiers. They arrived at Justin’s home under the pretense that they were supervising Justin’s move. King Yaser had insisted that someone oversee that he actually made it to his boat on the coast, and Justin appeared unsurprised that the warrior girl and the Prince’s bastard brother were selected for the task. Justin smiled ruefully at Gigi and Louis when they first appeared from off the road, calling out his greetings. 

But the words were hardly out of his mouth before Gigi let her arrow fly, the head of it sinking into Justin’s throat with a sick whoosh. He crumpled against the ground with all the finesse of a broken puppet.

Louis laughed in delight before descending from his horse. He walked over to Justin’s body and watched as his old friend struggled to breathe, blood rushing out of his wound like a gushing flood. 

Louis waited patiently for Justin to take his final breath, and then he helped the soldiers bar the doors to the sprawling home. Louis watched in awe as they lit the flames and as the fire caught, and he turned a deaf ear to the screams of those that were caught inside — to the desperate pleas of Justin’s family, of the servants and bannermen who were there to help the disgraced nobleman. In Louis’ eyes, they were _all_ traitors.

Harry blinked and shook himself. His dreams were becoming his reality and Zayn didn’t see it, didn’t know it. 

What other horrors would become the truth? 

“Murdering him isn’t the way. We’re supposed to be better than those base instincts, better than men who kill themselves in the quest for retribution,” Harry said. “We’re supposed to be rational, to think before we kill. That’s why the gods picked us to rule.”

Zayn stared at Harry, his gaze questioning and curious. “Do you actually believe that? That we were selected by the gods?”

“You _don’t_?”

“The gods had nothing to do with this,” Zayn said. “If they did, they never would’ve put men on this world who felt any ill will for you. And, hell, when you think about it, the only reason we’re together is because of our grandfather’s failed attempts at retribution.”

Harry watched as Zayn picked his clothes from off the floor. He dropped the blanket that was shielding his nakedness and unhurriedly redressed, letting Harry and Niall see the burns and scars that now crisscrossed his flesh.

“Oh, and Harry,” Zayn said once he was fully dressed and turning to leave the room. “Do you remember what day it is?”

Harry gaped at his husband and shook his head, unsure what game Zayn was playing at.

“Of course you don’t,” Zayn answered with a sad quirk of his lips. “We’ve been married for a full year. Happy anniversary, husband.”

“Zayn — ”

But Zayn had already turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

Harry fell to his knees, not even feeling the sting when they thwacked against wood.

Niall held Harry while he sobbed.

 

That night, Harry crawled under his blankets alone. He tossed and turned, his mind a whirlwind of noise. But eventually he fell asleep and began dreaming again.

He considered the blood that had soaked through his robes and seeped through the leather of his boots. His shoes made an obscene squelch as he walked through the empty castle, wandering hallways and forcing open doors. The world around him smelled damp and metallic, like the inside of a butcher’s shop. But despite the gore, despite the noise and the stench and the humidity, Harry knew he was dreaming.

As in countless dreams before, Harry roamed the castle and did not find anyone. Instead, he discovered ash tumbling from the sky like snow. He did not ask any questions when it fell on his cheeks and against his lips, melting some of the gore away. This was all his mind’s creation, after all. Things did not have to make sense.

Harry wandered out to the castle grounds, just as he had before. He was greeted by the same cold sting of wind, but this time when he tilted his head upward, he did not gaze into the cold gale of a snowstorm. Instead, he saw the underbelly of a dragon, thick emerald scales flecked with bronze. Harry held his breath and closed his eyes as the beast passed, making a wish.

Zayn was kneeling over a corpse at the entrance to the mazes. His blonde hair was like a beacon, but his crown was cracked and he was alone. He didn’t even have Tessa at his side. He seemed small and fallible, like a man broken. Harry crouched beside him, laying his head on Zayn’s shoulder and taking a long, shuddering breath.

Zayn clutched an arrow between his burned fingers. At first glance, Harry assumed that the point and shaft were merely painted black, but when Harry gazed closer, he noticed that the weapon was actually covered with drying plasma and gore. Harry made himself tear his eyes away.

“I should’ve known,” Zayn said. He had tore the arrow from the corpse’s neck. Harry could see the death wound and felt a remorse and guilt so strong he wanted to cry. “This is all my fault.”

But that wasn’t right. Zayn didn’t feel remorse for killing Justin. So Harry replied, “I don’t understand.”

Zayn gestured toward the maze with his free hand. Harry straightened himself from his crouch and stepped over the cadaver, careful not to track blood over the man’s face.

The maze was quiet and cold, two things they never were when Harry was awake. Harry tightened his stained robes tighter around him and watched the puff of his breath. The further he traveled, the darker it became. It felt less like a garden maze, less like the whimsical creation of one of Zayn’s ancestors, and more like a tunnel leading Harry straight into hell.

Harry almost walked right into Louis where he was sitting against one of the hedges, rocking back and forth and cradling his arm to his chest. 

And Harry did, in fact, step directly on Louis’ left hand where it was lying, cleanly severed, in the middle of the path.

Harry didn’t scream. At least not in his dream. 

 

But he did scream when he was wretched out of his bed and tossed to the floor, his head colliding against the ground with a slick thunk.


	22. Part Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One moment Harry and the others were wandering aimlessly through the woods. The next, they were walking into a gap through the trees, and the whole world was in front of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Camie for the [chapter art](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/post/150232857001/chase-the-devil-part-twenty-one-one-moment-harry) and to my betas for their constant feedback. And thanks, of course, to you for still reading.
> 
> Mind the tags! This chapter is a little bleak.

The day King Yaser’s party arrived outside of Queen Anne’s castle, there was a snowstorm, leaving the men cold and shivering in their thin robes. 

The castle’s sentries said the envoy’s horses were gaunt and sick, having traversed the snowy terrain slowly with mucus trailing from their noses. There was talk the King’s men were ill, too. It was a long journey they had undertaken, sailing across the great sea and then traveling steadily northward through Holmes’ harsh terrain.

During the storm, the men set up camp a league from the gatehouse, their banners little more than purple smears off in the distance. They sent a raven to the guards, requesting to break bread with Queen Anne and her new husband once the gale passed. 

Niall convinced Harry to leave his bedroom and stand upon the westward facing turret on the day that the storm began to wane, the swirl of the blizzard giving way to gray skies and powder snow. Harry wrapped himself in his warmest fur coat and ascended the long staircase, sweat trickling down his back even as his breath misted before him. It felt like the longest climb of his life, but when the two boys finally stood at the top of the tower, Harry’s heart stopped. 

There were a thousand people, at least, spread out in tents outside the castle walls. From the vantage point of the turrets, the men looked like purple ants dotting the severe white landscape. The air rung with the clang of steel and the chatter of hungry men, and reeked with the stench of waste, both human and horse. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he had seen so many soldiers in one place. The sight made dread settle and fester in Harry’s stomach.

But Harry reminded himself that King Robin and Queen Anne were expecting the envoy and that they were inviting some of these men to dine with them. So the next day the guards allowed the entry of a handful of King Yaser’s men.

Harry was on hand to introduce himself to the representatives. He dressed in his finest furs and pasted on his most charming smile, standing beside his mother while she gripped Harry’s arm and sang his praises. 

Harry was immediately struck by the men’s foreignness. They wore it proudly, speaking amongst themselves in Nia and wearing strange, slinky clothing. They were all tanned despite the freezing temperatures, but their eyes held the gauntness of those who had endured hunger and other tribulations.

Nonetheless, these men from across the sea still managed to communicate wealth and dignity, from the garish rings on their fingers, to the mahogany chest full of gifts they presented to Harry and his mother. Harry’s eyes bulged as he sifted through the tantalizingly soft clothing and supple leather shoes, the rare books and even rarer jewels. Harry murmured his thanks, his mind spinning as he realized he had never encountered people like this before, these strange men from the New Continent. Harry wanted to know all about them, wanted to know what difficulties they had endured to visit his court — and why.

The ravens had first brought word of a potential peace in the weeks after King Des’ death and Queen Anne’s hasty marriage. Harry did not have any time to properly mourn his father, let alone stop to think about what these men from Jinan could possibly want with his mother. All he knew was that his mother was expecting him to put on a smile and behave, so he vowed to do just that.

King Yaser’s lords were allocated rooms of high honor deep within the castle. That night, after they bathed, shaved, and were gifted thicker, proper robes lined with fur, the men were granted seats at Queen Anne’s high table. Queen Anne ordered for one of their prized hogs to be slaughtered and she treated the visitors to an extravagant ten-course feast, the likes of which hadn’t been seen since Gemma’s marriage. Harry watched as the men incrementally relaxed with every passing course, no doubt grateful that Queen Anne was a pious woman and a firm believer of guest right.

The Queen was still wearing black then, even though she was newly married to Robin. Her second wedding had been a subdued affair, small and intimate, and over the subsequent weeks, the Queen continued to carry herself with the solemn air of a woman recently widowed. Des and Anne’s love was a complicated thing, a mixture of power, convenience, and reluctant admiration, but Harry still knew that Queen Anne mourned for her husband and her King. She mourned for the man she had lost at battle and for the hope of a victorious conclusion to this long, long war.

It was an unspoken certainty that Holmes would lose the war without King Des’ guidance. Even Harry, who had never been much of a military strategist, could see that. What Harry couldn’t understand was why King Yaser sent a peace envoy _now_ when this was the moment where he could strike the final blow against Holmes’ leaderless, scattered, and beleaguered forces. 

So Harry wondered, but he did not vocalize his questions or speak to any of King Yaser’s men throughout the night. Instead, he picked at his food and smiled whenever he was addressed.

After the feast, Harry attempted to retire to his bedroom, but the Queen requested his presence in the room where King Des had always conducted his meetings with foreign diplomats. Queen Anne avoided King Des’ old chair, the simple wooden frame that seemed so big without King Des there to occupy it, instead busying herself by serving King Yaser’s men pitchers of wine and ale. It was a strange sight, watching the Queen cater to the whims and fancy of strangers. Harry watched his mother warily, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

When Queen Anne noticed that Harry had arrived, she told him to stand in front of the strangers while they murmured amongst themselves in Nia. Then she asked Harry to turn, to smile, to read from a prayer book, to sing a song in the Common Tongue. Harry, ever the dutiful son, did not hesitate or question his mother. He walked the length of the room. He smiled. He read old prayers and sang, grinning sheepishly when his voice wobbled and threatened to abandon him. 

Harry didn’t quite know what was happening, but he felt as though he were a horse about to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.

Harry remembered staring at one of the foreigners during this strange demonstration, a slight brunet with eyes as blue as a cloudless summer sky. The man returned Harry’s gaze, but his survey was sharp and almost clinical. Harry turned away, fidgeting while the strangers continued to chatter amongst themselves and Queen Anne smiled placatingly. Harry wondered if she understood what King Yaser’s men were saying and reassured himself that she most likely did. Harry was not a child any longer, but he still thought of his mother as something close to infallible, infinitely more clever and educated than Harry could ever hope to be.

The dark haired man was not the most talkative of the bunch, but he said something in Nia that made all of the others stop their conversations. Harry had still been singing, swaying slightly as he did so, but he dropped his arms by his side once the room fell silent. Then he waited.

“What did the young Duke say?” Queen Anne prompted, speaking in the Common Tongue. “I profess myself to be most curious.”

“Duke Tomlinson said your son is quite comely, Your Majesty,” one of the messengers replied, his words only faintly accented. 

“I would dare say my son is more than comely.”

The messenger bowed his head in acknowledgement. “You are correct, Ma’am. Prince Harry is beautiful and quite gifted. The Duke thinks King Yaser’s son, the young Prince Zayn, would be very pleased with him.”

_King Yaser’s son_? Harry turned to his mother, mouth open in a question, maybe even a plea, but Queen Anne shook her head once, curtly, and instead smiled at the messenger.

“Is there more the Duke would like to see?” Queen Anne asked. “I have heard tales of Prince Zayn’s skills and would not want him to think my son is anything less than his equal. Prince Harry is a talented pianist and a natural bowman. We can adjourn to the entertainment room for a song or two, and perhaps Prince Harry can lead your party on a hunt in the morning?”

“The Prince trusts Duke Tomlinson’s judgement and the Duke has already proclaimed your son as more than adequate,” the messenger replied. “So yes, I think this will be all. The two will make a fine match. Should we adjourn to discuss the terms, Your Highness? And do we need to wait for your husband?”

“No, I don’t think King Robin’s presence will be necessary,” Queen Anne said, turning and making her way to the door. She was so beautiful in her clothes of mourning, her neck glittering with a dark diamond necklace, one of the crown’s last remaining jewels. Harry watched her walk away and dimly felt like he had been bludgeoned over the head. “Harry, dear, you are free to go.”

Harry did not think to protest or ask for additional clarification. He only bowed and said, “Goodnight, mother,” before making his way out of the room. 

It was only when he reached the door that he realized the slight brunet — Duke Tomlinson — was still watching him. Harry frowned and turned away from the other man’s stare, but not before catching the Duke’s wink.

Late that night, Queen Anne visited Harry in his bedroom. She tucked him into bed like she had done when he was a small child and smoothed his hair from his forehead. And then she told him that King Robin had severed Harry’s betrothal to Earl George’s daughter more than a fortnight prior and would instead be sending his step-son to Jinan, where he would be marrying King Yaser’s only son, a Prince named Zayn.

“The war is over, love,” the Queen said. “I lived through this war my entire life, but you ended it on your own with your darling face and your sweet song.”

 

Harry awoke to the stench of dried blood and the bumpy rock of a carriage.

He groaned and attempted to move. His whole body felt like one large, throbbing bruise. Harry shifted his arm, intending to poke his side and investigate the tender skin, but he realized with a start that he _couldn’t_. He pulled and pulled, but all his shoulder did was crack, pain sparking suddenly along the joint and then fading, discomfort rippling outward like a stone in a pond. 

Harry’s arms were restrained behind his back.

“Gods,” a voice swore as Harry blinked blearily. The world was blurry, foggy like the first tendrils of dawn. But the space around him actually seemed larger than a standard carriage and their movement was far rockier. It appeared he was actually in a wagon, the top and sides covered over with some sort of taut material. He was propped up against the side, and three other dim figures were sprawled around him in somewhat of a semi-circle. “He’s awake,” the voice continued. “Fuck, _he’s finally awake_.”

Harry turned toward the voice and blinked again. All he could see was the outline of a man, tawny skin and brown hair. But Harry would know that voice from anywhere — had heard it for years and years of his life, guiding him with firm patience. “Liam?”

“Yes,” Liam gasped. “Me, Louis, and Taylor.”

“What — ?” Harry asked, darting a tongue out to lick over his lips. He winced, surprised to note that his bottom lip was split almost right down the middle. But then his memories returned, all in a surging rush that heralded a new thump of head pain. He remembered Justin’s trial and King Yaser’s decision. The fire. Slumping against Niall while Zayn left him sprawled along the floor. And someone coming into his room and tossing him from bed, his head colliding against the cool, wooden floor. He’d lost consciousness immediately. “Where are we? What happened?” 

Harry still couldn’t see clearly, but now he recognized Taylor’s hair. The billows of her clothing led Harry to believe she was still in her night clothes. “They came for us. Kidnapped us.”

“Who?”

“Shahid bloody Khan,” Liam snarled. 

Harry shook his head and stared in the direction of Liam’s voice, his mouth agape. That didn’t make any sense. Harry had forced Shahid out of the capital. The man was supposed to be leagues away. He’d given Harry his word. “What — ?”

“We were betrayed,” Louis answered. “Shahid knew you were staying with the Jenners, and he knew the rest of us would likely be nearby. He also happens to know our security protocols, what times guards rotate in and out. He knew we’d be celebrating Bieber’s death and that we’d probably be more relaxed than usual. He and his hired goons just waited for the shift change and made their move.”

“Made their move?” Harry repeated. The light filtering through the gaps of the wagon’s covering aggravated his eyes and made him feel nauseated. He was so disoriented and his head ached, throbbing with every beat of his heart. “I don’t understand.”

“How can I make this simpler for you?” Louis barked. “Gods, you’re so bloody thick — ”

“Leave him alone,” Taylor snapped. “He’s clearly got a head injury. You saw all the blood — ”

“I wish _you_ had a head injury — ”

“Several dozen men broke into the Jenner home,” Liam interrupted. “They were well-armed. Half of the men fought against the King’s soldiers in the courtyard. The others ran through the hallways, banging open doors and shouting, looking for someone or something. I encountered some of them outside of your room and attempted to stop them, but there were too many. They swarmed me and broke into your quarters, dragged you out.”

Harry shook his head. “But that doesn’t make any sense. I have guards outside all night. It shouldn’t have been just you. There’s Kevin — ”

“Kevin was with me,” Liam said. “I — One of the intruders stabbed him in the back. I saw him fall.” Liam took a long, deep breath. Harry could hear the hint of tears in Liam’s throat. “I’m so, so sorry, Harry.”

Harry bowed his head and closed his eyes, breathing harshly through his nose. Shahid hadn’t left the capital like he’d promised. Instead, he’d hired more assassins, and these men had burst into the Jenner home and killed people. Had killed _Kevin_.

Kevin had been at Harry’s side since the beginning of his life in Jinan. Kevin was a rare but special sort of man, the type to explain the strange customs of Harry’s adopted country with aplomb, dutifully deliver messages, and constantly maintain Harry’s best interests. Kevin was more than Harry’s bodyguard. He was one of the first faces he encountered in the capital, the first soldier Harry knew by name. 

Kevin put Harry’s son to bed just as often as Harry did. He rocked Joshua to sleep and made sure Sarah tended to her studies. He watched over Harry when he was ill. And now he was dead — murdered by someone Harry assumed was no longer a threat.

Harry wanted to wail, wanted to sink to his knees and curse the gods. Kevin had swore to protect the Crown, to protect Harry. He knew that this job could be dangerous, but he did not deserve this fate. 

Harry allowed himself a few moments to sit with his pain, to let his grief consume him whole. His body shook with it, and his thunderous headache climbed new heights. Tears slipped down Harry’s face, burning when the salt reached his cracked lips, but he still had so many more questions to ask.

“What of everyone else?” Harry asked around a sniffle. “My children? King Yaser? Niall and Eleanor and Matty and _Zayn_?”

Louis cleared his throat. Harry still couldn’t see him very clearly, but he knew Louis was looking about the wagon shiftily. “Zayn and Matty weren’t there.”

“ _What_? But I saw him — ”

“He left after you fucked him,” Louis clarified. 

“Fine. But where the fuck did he _go_ , Louis?” Harry demanded.

“Niall had also left early in the evening,” Liam interjected when Louis didn’t respond. “I presumed to visit Nick and Aimee in the castle. And the children’s room was one of the most secure in the house. Eleanor and the children are safe — I’m sure of it.”

“King Yaser was fighting some of the intruders himself,” Taylor said. “Louis and I — we were in my room. But I caught a glimpse of the King cutting a man down before they blindfolded and restrained us.”

Harry’s vision was starting to clear, so he caught the guilty look that flashed across both Taylor and Louis’ faces. Well, _that_ was interesting. But Harry needed to focus. There were still many more things for him to uncover. 

“So these men targeted us,” Harry said.

Liam shook his head. “Yes and no. I don’t know why they took me. But they clearly wanted you, Taylor, and Louis.”

“No,” Louis said. “They thought I was Healy.”

“For good reason,” Liam retorted. “Since you were in Taylor’s bloody room.”

Harry didn’t have time for whatever the hell was going on between the three of them. “Where are they taking us?”

“We don’t know,” Taylor answered. “I think we’re heading east. But it _does_ say something that we’re all still alive.”

“Ransom,” Liam said. “They’re keeping you all alive for ransom.”

“We certainly are worth more alive than dead,” Taylor agreed. “But it’s madness to kidnap Harry. Surely Shahid knows that.”

“Why would it be madness to kidnap me?” Harry asked. “I’m a lucrative captive, too.”

Louis scoffed. “King Yaser probably killed ten of those men with his bare hands. His tactical mind and physical prowess is legendary. Now, do you legitimately believe King Yaser would allow _you_ — his son’s husband and our Prince Consort — to become a haggling point? The crown doesn’t believe in paying ransoms. Everyone knows that. And the King’s mercenaries are as numerous as the stars in the sky. The minute our captors reveal themselves and demand a ransom, they become dead men. The whole kingdom will be scrambling to rescue the Prince Consort and endear themselves to King Yaser, maybe get a knighthood or some land out of it.”

“And you’re sure of this?” Harry pressed. “You’re sure that fear of the King and a desire to remain on his good side is enough of a reason to keep us alive? How do we know that the King is even still alive? Liam said there were dozens of men there.”

“I am sure the King’s fine,” Louis said. “They were closing the capital gates and sounding the bells just as two of the intruders were transporting us away. And even if King Yaser is dead — which he isn’t — _Zayn wasn’t there_. Take everything I just said about the King, and it still applies to your damn husband.”

Harry squirmed, his wrists chafing against the rope that was restraining him. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable — more than he already did with an explosive headache, caked blood on the side of his face, and his arms tied behind his back. 

Harry wanted to find relief in Louis’ words, but doubt niggled in the back of his mind. Only hours before Harry’s kidnapping, Zayn and Harry quarreled, unearthing fundamentally different perspectives about power and the burden of rule, about the value of life and the severity of death. Harry had been so upset with Zayn, truly blinded with rage and disbelief, but Zayn had just seemed _resigned_ , almost like he’d expected his husband’s outburst and wasn’t even willing to humor him by arguing. 

And then there had been his final words: “ _Do you remember what day it is? We’ve been married for a full year. Happy anniversary, husband_.”

Harry knew that wedding anniversaries were not huge productions here on the New Continent. They were private affairs, intimate dinners that ended with passionate traipses to the bedroom. But that didn’t mean their anniversary wasn’t important. Harry should’ve remembered. And if he were in his right mind — if he hadn’t spent the last two moons alternately worrying about his children, Zayn, and his own wellbeing — he _would’ve_ remembered and made it a big production, into the type of celebration that would engender envy and awe from everyone in the capital. 

Zayn had to know that. If he truly knew Harry as well as he claimed, if his love ran as deep as he professed, he had to.

But Harry didn’t feel as sure of Zayn’s love as he had only a moon ago. So could he really expect Zayn to come racing after him the minute he realized Harry was gone?

And hell — what if Zayn thought Harry was _dead_? Whoever had tossed him from bed hadn’t been very delicate about it. Harry’s blood was on the ground, and Kevin’s body would be lying outside of the room. It wouldn’t be the first attempt on Harry’s life, and the intruders could’ve taken his corpse for some dark, nefarious purpose. It would be a reasonable conclusion to jump to. It would certainly be one of the first thoughts in Harry’s head, were their situations flipped.

And what if Zayn, in his melancholy, continued to retreat within himself? What if he moved to the mountains with his mother and sisters and succumbed to his grief?

Zayn learned everything he knew from King Yaser, but they weren’t the same person. Harry couldn’t assume that Zayn would comport himself the exact same way King Yaser would. 

Harry wasn’t _stupid_. He couldn’t blindly hope for a miraculous rescue, not when his present was currently so very bleak.

His vision was almost back to normal now, so Harry could tell that Louis was glaring at him. “What?”

“Are you unconvinced?” Louis asked drolly. “Do you not believe that your husband will come and rescue you like in one of your — what are they called — bloody Knight-Errant’s tales?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No,” Louis agreed. “But it’s all over your face. Did the two of you have a lover’s quarrel after your very loud, exuberant sex yesterday evening?”

Harry shook his head, feeling heat rush to his face. “I’m not talking about this with you.”

Louis scrunched his nose and rolled his eyes. “I can assure you, he’s not going to abandon you just because you’re an idiot,” Louis said. “Zayn does care about you and your wellbeing, and he’s far cleverer than Shahid.”

Harry remained silent. His face still felt flushed and dust motes fluttered before his eyes, kicked up from their rustling. If Harry blocked out the others and pretended as though his hands weren’t bound tightly behind his back, he could almost be in Jinan, in the barn behind the castle. It smelled the same, stale and musty, like the earth and its beasts. 

He could close his eyes and pretend as though he was visiting Tessa to take her out for a hunt. She was almost too big to stay in the barn now — too big and too wild. She needed to be out in the woods, chasing deers and goats. She needed a pack.

Next time Harry saw Tessa, he would take her out at night, deep into the woods where the townsfolk said they heard the howl of wolves. He could let her run free, allow her to be wild and prey to her heart’s content. He and Kevin could ride their horses alongside her until Tessa outpaced them, and then they would watch her disappear into the thicket.

_Kevin_.

How had Harry already forgotten?

For a moment, Harry felt a grief so acute, he hunched over, his chest contracting with pain. He bit his lip to keep his face from crumpling. 

Suddenly Louis inhaled, his eyes softening with something that almost looked like compassion. “Harry. _Harry_.”

Harry shook his head, determinedly averting his eyes. 

“We’ll make it through this,” Louis said, his voice soft. “I — I promise you.”

Harry sniffled and did not respond.

 

The wagon rumbled along for hours. Occasionally Harry, Louis, Liam, and Taylor spoke to each other, but otherwise Harry closed his eyes and focused on the steady, unhurried clop of horses hooves and the distant chatter of their captors. 

Harry, like Taylor, was in his night clothes, but someone had also pulled his arms through a robe while he was unconscious. It was a thick one with a fur collar, one he hadn’t had cause to wear since he’d left Holmes. The sun arced through the sky, beaming through the wagon’s fabric awning and causing sweat to trickle down Harry’s face and along his underarms, stinking his clothes.

It was sometime around midday before the wagon slowed and came to a stop. The horses whinnied and Harry strained his ears to listen as one of the men murmured to the beast, speaking in an accented Nia that sounded strange to Harry’s ears.

Boots crunched against soil, and then two plain, brunet men poked their heads through the covering. Both were wearing brigandine over their clothing and carried a sword and knife in the scabbards at their waist. One was short but fair, with thin lips and watery blue eyes, but the other was taller and sunburnt. The taller man reminded Harry of Kevin, who was ruddy in the face and constantly smiling. But Harry’s chest clenched whenever he thought of Kevin, so he banished the thought. 

Both men were carrying handfuls of food, cured meat and hunks of cheese which they tossed into the wagon.

“It’s not poisoned,” the short one said. He was the one who must have been comforting the horse, his pronunciations muddled and a little uncertain. “We heard you all talking and you’re right. The merchant wants ransom. You’re not useful dead.”

Taylor blinked up at the men, smiling sweetly even as her eyes glinted with malice. “Thank you.” 

“Yeah thanks,” Louis grumbled. “But you’ve got our arms tied. How the hell are we supposed to eat this?”

“You’ve got perfectly good mouths,” the short one guffawed. The tall one glanced behind them, like his job was to be the lookout. Harry wondered if King Yaser had already spread the word of Harry’s disappearance, sending soldiers to scout the main roads. “Get to it, bastard.”

Harry looked down at a hunk of meat. The wagon floor was filthy, covered with a thin film of dirt and straw. Their captors knew that. 

They just didn’t care.

Or they wanted to humiliate them, to humble a knight, a Duke, a noblewoman, and a Prince.

Harry wasn’t particularly in the mood to be humiliated. But he was also hungry. His head still ached and food would numb some of that pain. There was no point starving himself out of pride. If Zayn and King Yaser were indeed looking for him, he had to keep himself alive. If not for himself, then certainly for Joshua and Sarah.

“Harry, no — ” Liam started, but Harry had already bowed over a sausage, capturing the meat between his teeth. He tore at it, thrashing his head violently and coming away with a substantial bite. He chewed, separating meat from straw by collecting the former in the pouch of his cheek. He spat the straw onto the floor and swallowed the meat before leaning in for another bite.

Their captors howled with laughter, but Harry kept eating and spitting, ignoring everyone around him. 

Harry promised himself that he would have the last laugh.

The two men eventually returned to their horses and the wagon creaked along once more. Harry leaned his head against the wooden slots and closed his eyes, attempting to drown out Taylor’s stifled cries and Liam and Louis’ stilted conversation. None of the others ate the dirty meat. Eventually Liam kicked all of it out of a slot in the wagon floor.

 

The sun was starting its descent when Harry woke with a jolt, blinking frantically as his nightmare receded into the shadows of his mind. He felt dirty and confused as the slinky images of empty castle corridors retreated from his vision, banished to the slippery realm of imagination from whence they came.

Harry wondered what it meant that he was still having the same terrifying, wretched dream. It’d been plaguing him for weeks now, ever since he’d eaten that bloody horse heart. It seemed laughable that Harry had once cared so much about the whimsy and gossip of his husband’s court.

Harry could only scoff at what all of that work and energy produced. He was tied up in the back of some godforsaken wagon, his bladder an insistent pressure in his guts, held captive with three of his least-favorite people.

Harry fidgeted with the ropes binding his arms behind his back. His lower-back ached, as did his shoulders, and his wrists were already rubbed raw from his tightly bound restraints. He attempted to dig his fingers between the fibers and his flesh, recalling the raised indentations and violet bruises that plagued Harry’s skin in the days after he’d woken in the Jenner’s home.

All of the others in the wagon were asleep. Taylor was lying face-forward against the floor, bits of straw in her hair and pressed against her lips. Liam was seated straight-back against the wagon wall, the bruises on his face already turning yellow, Louis pillowed in his lap and breathing deep and slow.

Harry turned away from them, the pressure against his bladder lurching as the wagon dipped against the road. Harry took a deep breath, long and measured, and laboriously crawled toward what he thought was the front of the wagon. 

“Hey,” Harry called, thumping his shoulder into the wood and fighting against the urge to wince at the pain. “ _Hey_! Can we stop? I’ve got to piss!”

“Hold it in, _Your Highness_ ,” one of the voices yelled back, his words dripping with condescension.

“And wait to throw it on you the next time you reach into the wagon?”

There was silence, but thankfully the wagon started to slow, eventually coming to a stop altogether. Taylor stirred, straw still hanging from her moistened lips, watching blearily as the tall man reached into the wagon, grabbed Harry’s bicep, and hauled him out.

Harry inhaled sharply as he was unceremoniously dumped onto the ground. Harry looked around, silently memorizing his surroundings. They were in the woods somewhere, surrounded by tall, lush pines. There was a breeze, but it didn’t carry the bitter salt of sea air, or the stench of the river that wound around the capital. Instead, the breeze reminded Harry of Holmes, of icy currents and the cool herald of winter.

They were headed toward the mountains.

“Can you remove the ropes?” Harry asked, twisting his body to look at his kidnapper. The man only stared in reply. “I’m not going to run,” Harry continued. “I don’t even know where we are. Or would you rather pull down my breeches and hold my cock yourself?”

The man huffed out a sigh, grabbing Harry by the collar and pulling him to his feet. “Walk,” he barked.

“Okay, okay,” Harry muttered. “Which direction — ?”

The kidnapper shoved Harry toward a tree. Harry dutifully came to stand before the pine, shifting his weight from foot to foot and waiting to see what his companion would do.

Thankfully, the kidnapper unbound Harry’s ropes. “If you run, I’ll kill you,” the kidnapper promised, jutting his hip where the sword lay flat. “Ransom or not.”

“I’m not going to run,” Harry promised, pulling his cock from his breeches and relieving himself against the tree. He didn’t have a weapon. He didn’t know where he was. Harry couldn’t hope for Zayn to rescue him, but that didn’t mean he would act rashly. It was better to sit and wait, observe. If he let his kidnappers underestimate him, they would eventually make a mistake, and then Harry could do — something. “What’s your name?”

The man huffed, swiping a hand across his sweaty brow. “You can call me Tom.”

“Where are you taking us, Tom?”

Tom sneered at Harry, spitting against a tree. “Chatty one, aren’t ya?”

“Just curious,” Harry said.

“What’s there to be curious about?”

“I’d think that if you were taken out of your bed and thrown into a wagon for hours, you’d be curious, too.”

Tom hummed. “You done yet, boy?”

Harry nodded, tucking himself back into his breeches and doing up the laces with unsteady hands. “Yes.”

“We’re not going to kill you, you know,” Tom said. “We’re not even going to keep you. All we’re doing is meeting the person who really wants you. Then we’ll be on our way.”

“The person who really wants us? Who’s that?”

“Don’t want to ruin the surprise, now do we?” Tom asked, his smile a crooked leer. “Now turn back towards the tree — that’s a good lad. Time for the ropes again.”

Harry did as he was told, only wincing slightly when the fibers bit into his tender wrists.

 

The wagon continued in what Harry thought was a vaguely eastward direction, but then it careened off whatever road they had been following and began trailing a path deeper into the woods. The others had all awaken some time earlier, but this time they sat in a stormy silence. 

The temperature and sun dropped almost in unison, so by the time the wagon ground to another halt, Harry was actually grateful for the fur-trimmed robe he had been forced into. They could all see their own breath, and Taylor’s teeth chattered.

Tom and his companion came to the side of the wagon again, but this time they did not throw food. Instead, they worked together to peel back the wagon cover.

“Time for a walk,” the short man said. “Jump down.”

Harry looked to Liam, almost for reassurance. Liam’s face was pale and pinched, coated with the browning blood from his injuries. But he was still the warmest, most familiar thing in the entire world for Harry at this moment. 

“Do as they say, Haz,” Liam said, dropping into the familiar language of their youth. Harry had almost forgotten how much he missed their mother tongue. “They won’t hurt you. No one will. I promise.”

Harry nodded, smiling thin-lipped at his old friend. Harry rolled onto his knees and waddled to the back of the wagon. Tom wrapped his arms around Harry’s middle, lifting him from the wagon and helping Harry stand.

The others were not as lucky. The captors stood back and let Louis, Taylor, and Liam navigate the height between wagon and ground on their own, to mostly disastrous results.

“The others are all in a clearing only fifteen minutes from here,” Tom said. “From there, you will be transported to your final destination. And thank the gods, we will not accompany you.” 

“There are bowmen throughout the forest,” the squatter captor added. “Yaser is not recognized as King in the Sawsan. As far as they are concerned, the Malik line is full of traitors. There is only one name that matters amongst the warrior tribes.”

Louis laughed, a surly bark of a sound. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Liam glared at Louis. “ _Louis_ — ”

“Just take us to her then,” Louis said. “I’ve had enough of the dramatics.”

The two captors exchanged a loaded glance but shrugged, pulling swords out of their belts and gesturing for Harry, Louis, Liam, and Taylor to begin moving.

 

The clearing seemingly appeared out of nowhere. One moment Harry and the others were wandering aimlessly through the woods. All Harry could hear was the chomp of boots, Taylor’s shivering hisses as she traversed the terrain in bare feet, and the soft tittering of birds and other wildlife. The next, they were walking into a gap through the trees, and the whole world was in front of them.

There were dozens and dozens of men and women — at least a hundred. And they all looked upon Harry and his companions with dark, hateful eyes. It was enough to draw Harry up short, Liam walking into him with a soft grunt.

At the head of the crowd was a tiny figure. A fair, blonde woman with eyes rimmed in black. She was wearing leathers and breeches, her hair pulled back in a perfunctory bun. In her hand, she grasped a sword.

Harry gaped as the pieces all slotted into place. Before him stood the blonde woman from his nightmares. The warrior whose swore dripped blood and gore.

“Good evening,” the woman said. “It’s such a pleasure to have all of you here with me tonight.”

Tom tapped Harry on the shoulder with the flat of his blade. “Kneel before your Princess,” he hissed.

Harry turned back toward the blonde woman and caught her roguish smile. Harry gingerly lowered himself to his knees, only wincing slightly at their tenderness. His companions did the same, the four of them bowing in a neat row.

The blonde woman smirked to herself and walked down their little line, starting with Taylor who was furthest on Harry’s left. Taylor shirked from the other woman’s gaze, sniveling almost pathetically. The blonde woman snickered to herself and continued on to Louis, stopping in front of him with a wry grin.

“Louis.”

Louis tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Perrie.”

“You tried to kill me,” Princess Perrie said, her tone playful and mocking. As though this was just banter between friends and not the most fucked up thing to ever happen in Harry’s life. “You sent Healy and his shrew to collect my head.”

Louis’ smile did not dim at all. “I can assure you, love, that it was nothing personal.”

Princess Perrie lifted an eyebrow. “ _Oh_? Murder isn’t personal? Going into hiding at a whorehouse and leading my own kinsmen to believe I was dead — none of that was personal?”

Louis somehow managed a shrug. “Nobody made you hide out at a whorehouse,” Louis said. “That was your call. And I can assure you, if I _really_ wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have sent Matty and Taylor to do it.”

“You mean you _didn’t_ fuck Swift to guarantee your success?” Princess Perrie tsked. “That is what you used to do whenever you wanted her to do something, right? Perhaps you’re losing your touch.”

“I gave her other things.”

“Because your cock wasn’t enough?”

“We all know Swift likes what you do,” Louis said. “Beautiful, unattainable brunettes. But that’s neither here nor there. Healy’s soldiers were supposed to kidnap you and bash your head in. The caved in head _did_ look quite a bit like you — albeit on a good day.”

The Princess pursed her lips. “You flatter me. But it seems as though you’ve gotten a bit careless in your old age.”

“Careless? No. Distracted, maybe.”

“Distracted with what? Finding someone new to pine over?” Princess Perrie asked. “Who were you bedding if you weren’t reminiscing with Swift? You have always been most accommodating on your back.”

“Perhaps if you had done the same last time you were at court, you would be married to Prince Zayn right now instead of living out of whorehouses and kidnapping noblemen for ransom,” Louis pointed out.

Princess Perrie’s smile slid off her face and her eyes went dark and steely. “Who said anything about ransoming you?”

“Do you not need the coin, Princess? These mercenaries did mention that our true captor — you — wanted us alive.”

Princess Perrie bared her teeth. “I’d rather have your head, my friend.”

“Pity it’s worth infinitely more to Prince Zayn when it’s attached to the rest of me,” Louis said.

Princess Perrie scoffed and raised her eyes to their captors. Uncertainty flashed in Louis’ eye, but just as quick as it appeared, he re-adopted his mask of haughty indifference. “Untie him,” Princess Perrie commanded.

“Your Highness — ” Tom protested.

“ _Now_ ,” Princess Perrie hissed.

Tom did as he was told, fumbling with Louis’ knots. The crowd around them watched on in silence. Harry felt as though his very breathing was loud, ragged and labored even though he was trying so hard to remain calm.

Tom finished with Louis’ ropes and took a step back. Princess Perrie nodded, recognition of a job well done, and tapped the flat of her sword against her thigh. 

And Louis turned to Liam. The glance they shared was so heavy and full of understanding that Harry felt a spasm of jealousy jab through his guts. 

It was horrible to even think, but Harry wished he had Zayn here with him, too. He wished he wasn’t going through this — whatever _this_ was — alone.

“Pick a hand,” Princess Perrie commanded.

A moment passed. Louis stared at Princess Perrie, face blank. 

Ultimately, the Princess ended up picking for him. She kicked Louis backward and Louis collided against the ground with a heavy thud. Princess Perrie then swung her sword through the air. Harry imagined that he could see the moonlight in its sheen, and he swore he could hear the whistle the metal made as she sliced through the air, colliding the weapon against Louis’ wrist with a sick thwack. 

Blood spurted from the wound and splashed across Liam’s cheek, but Liam didn’t even flinch. He just looked ahead stoically. Perhaps he was mentally somewhere else. 

At least the slice was clean. The Princess did not have to hack and hack in order to dislodge Louis’ left hand from the rest of his body. 

Louis screamed and screamed and screamed. It was horrible, the wild fear in Louis’ eyes and the pitch and length of his cries. Harry ducked his head and closed his eyes, suddenly a gods-fearing man. He prayed that all of this was a nightmare and that he would wake up warm and safe in Zayn’s bed. He prayed for his father’s wisdom and strength. He prayed for his mother.

When Harry opened his eyes and accepted that this was real, that this was happening, he augmented his prayers, praying that he wouldn’t vomit the paltry meal the two men had thrown into the wagon. He asked the gods to grant Louis mercy, begging for Louis to stop screaming, praying for him to fall into unconsciousness. After an agonizing amount of time that could have been either seconds or minutes, Louis’ eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fell quiet.

The warrior princess wiped sweat from her brow and smiled satisfactorily. She then walked over to Liam, her lips pursed in distaste. Liam, to his credit, did not recoil, but matched Princess Perrie’s hard stare. Like this, Liam looked like a monster, his face bruised and beaten, splattered with Louis’ blood. He looked like the battle-tested soldier Harry knew him to be, and Harry shivered at the reminder.

“Who is this one?” the Princess asked, gesticulating with her sword. “And what happened to his face?”

“A knight,” the tall captor answered. “One of Prince Harry’s men and Tomlinson’s current bedwarmer. He’s a strong son of a bitch — took a few of us to restrain him. One of your boys finally hit him good across the face to get him to settle down. It seemed simpler to bring him, especially because we couldn’t find the bitch’s husband.”

Princess Perrie nodded, accepting the explanation. And then she took another two steps to stand directly in front of Harry.

“And this must be our dear Prince Harry,” she said with a smile so sweet Harry almost forgot that he was bound like a hog, Louis lying handless and unconscious mere feet from him. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you.”

Harry tossed his hair out of his eyes so he could better stare at the woman he had thought he’d killed.

“You may very well be more trouble than you are worth,” Princess Perrie continued. “It was not in our plans to capture you. I just wanted Tomlinson and the Healys. But my — it is so good to finally be able to put a face to the name of the whore who stole my title.” 

Harry blinked but otherwise tried not to react.

“Oh, you don’t like that, do you?” Princess Perrie cooed. “I’ve heard that you don’t. I wouldn’t like it if people said my best attribute was my prick, either. But it’s okay, _Your Highness_. You can cry if you want to. You’re so fucking pretty, it’d be almost a shame not to see it.”

Harry had never really thought of “pretty” as a loaded word. But then Princess Perrie stood in front of Harry with a sword in her hand, the blade still dripping Louis’ blood, and cooed, “Why, isn’t he _pretty_?” and it somehow managed to feel like a slap.

“Prince Harry is such a sweet little thing, isn’t he?” Princess Perrie continued while the crowd around her began to jeer and jostle. Louis was still lying unconscious on the ground. Taylor had started to cry, thick fat tears that coursed down her face and pooled in the collar of her night clothes. Her breath was coming quick and jagged, air puffing from her lips like little clouds. And Liam stared straight ahead, cool and stone-faced. “I shouldn’t be so surprised. He’s Prince Zayn’s type. Except they’re not related.”

The crowd howled with laughter. Princess Perrie snickered to herself and slid the edge of her knife over her breeches to finally clean the blade.

“All right then,” Princess Perrie began. “Load them up and let’s get going. We can make it to the caves in two days hence.”

“The peasants will know who he is if they see him during our transport, Your Highness,” a woman from the crowd called, gesturing at Harry. She was slight, just like the Princess, but brown skinned and curly-haired. “His clothes. His hair. One look at him and it’ll be plain that he’s the missing Prince. The Sawsan tribes, true defenders of the crown, will celebrate your return and the Styles boy’s capture, but the Maliks still have their spies. The false King Yaser would have us surrounded immediately.”

The Princess frowned and tapped her chin with a finger. She stared at Harry for a long moment, her gaze hard and considering. “You’re right,” she said, her tone even. “Sell his robes and dress him in my brother’s spare clothes. If we encounter any strangers, we shall pass him off as a bastard cousin. But do your bloody best to keep him hidden until we get to the caves.”

The crowd seemed to murmur in agreement, one large, unthinking mass, but the girl still piped up with, “Is that all you think we should do, Your Highness?”

Princess Perrie lifted an eyebrow. “Leigh-Anne, are you displeased?”

The girl — Leigh-Anne — blushed prettily. “I do not want all of your plans to be for naught, Your Highness. We have only just received you back as our Princess.”

Princess Perrie nodded to herself. “I must admit I’m loathe to do anything to disfigure his face, but you’re free to do something about his hair. And I give you the honors, Leigh-Anne.”

Liam sputtered, a loud, inarticulate noise, but he stopped abruptly when one of the Princess’ soldiers strolled forward and hit him in the gut. Harry turned toward him — to do what, he wasn’t sure — but another one of the Princess’ soldiers had already surged forward, grabbing Harry by the neck and digging her fingernails in so hard they broke the skin. Harry gasped and fidgeted in her grasp, but there was no use. Leigh-Anne had already come to stand before Harry, unsheathing a knife and pressing it against his scalp, drawing blood. 

Harry’s cut hair fell across his shoulders, soft and feathery like powder snow.

 

The two men who had served as Harry’s captors collected strands of his hair from where it had blown onto the ground. They also picked up Louis’ hand. They folded both into a handkerchief and presented the items to the Princess, who nodded for one of her servants to collect the gifts.

“I suppose you want your payment now,” Princess Perrie proclaimed.

“Five hundred gold coins,” Tom said. “Khan promised us two hundred, but he’d made no mention of the Prince.”

The Princess arched an eyebrow. “Three hundred gold coins just for that ratty stray? You must be insane.”

“That ratty stray is bloody _priceless_ ,” the other mercenary scoffed. “No offense, Your Highness, but you’re lucky we’re only asking for three.”

Princess Perrie shook her head in obvious disbelief. “But we only asked for transport. For three hundred, you would think that I asked you to kill him.”

The captors only stared at Princess Perrie, still and unbending. “Five hundred gold coins, Your Highness,” Tom reiterated. “This is dangerous work. You knew that.”

The Princess sighed and rolled her eyes. “I should make you take it up with Shahid,” she said. “But he’s probably run off to Essos by now. If you put the Prince and his bodyguard in the back of the cart, maybe I’ll get you four hundred gold coins and a new sword, expertly crafted by my dear companion, Jade. How’s that?”

The two men exchanged a skeptical glance, but eventually nodded to each other in agreement. 

The short one kicked Liam in the back, guffawing when he fell over. The tall one, Tom, put his arms under Harry’s armpits and hoisted him to his feet, steering him to an open, horse drawn cart bordering the clearing. Once again, Tom grabbed Harry around the waist and plopped him into the cart, while the short one leered and catcalled while Liam staggered to his feet and tossed himself inside. 

Princess Perrie watched the entire display dispassionately, tapping the blunt of her sword against her thigh. She looked like she was thinking particularly hard about something. Harry’s stomach lurched at the sound of each thwap, distrusting her composure. 

“Thank you, boys,” the Princess called as the woman named Leigh-Anne slunk to her side. They were both tiny women, beautiful and petite like Caroline, and they were also similarly predatory. Harry wondered if they, too, were witches. Harry’s fear ratcheted up yet another notch, sweat starting to bead along his forehead and mingling with the fresh cuts on his scalp. “Come here to collect your prize.”

It happened in a blur of motion. Leigh-Anne grabbed the squat one by the neck, jabbing her dagger into his armpit, where his flesh was not protected by the leather and steel of the brigandine. Leigh-Anne pulled her weapon from the man’s body as he gasped, blood squirting from the wound and splashing the clearing. The short man collapsed to the ground, eyes wide in surprise, as he convulsed, panting wetly.

Leigh-Anne had probably nicked his lung. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and swiped blood from the dagger.

Tom didn’t even have time to react to his co-conspirator’s demise. With the agility and grace of a hummingbird, Perrie slashed her sword against the man’s throat, the skin parting like a ribbon. Tom brought useless hands to flutter against his neck, his fingers red and sticky with his own blood.

His eyes rolled into the back of his head as he fell. And like that, he was dead.

Harry forced down his bile, closing his eyes to the sting of tears.

“We will send a raven to King Yaser with the bastard’s hand and the whore’s hair,” Princess Perrie announced to her trusted and dedicated tribe of warriors. They were a ragtag bunch, carrying old, rusty weapons, but they looked at their Princess with adoration, hanging onto her every word. “Load Tomlinson into the cart next to the knight and the Prince. I’m sure someone already spotted the mercenaries’ wagon, so we will leave these dead imbeciles and the Healy bitch for Prince Zayn to find.”

A cheer erupted in the clearing. Someone hastily fixed a tourniquet to Louis’ stump, but blood was still dripping from the wound, and his skin was turning sallow. Servants lifted Louis’ unconscious form from where he was still sprawled across the clearing and tossed him into the cart alongside Liam and Harry. Liam turned away from him, chewing his lip viciously.

Harry watched as Princess Perrie’s followers sat Taylor against a tree and wrapped a rope around her waist. Taylor screamed and pled and reasoned and cursed, eyes bulging and desperate, but no one helped her. No one saved her. All the tribesmen did was laugh and taunt her.

Harry’s last view of the clearing was of Taylor bound to a tree in her sullied nightclothes, with only two corpses to keep her company. 

 

Harry assumed that it was one of Princess Perrie’s most trusted servants guiding the cart on which he, Liam, and Louis sat. Harry also knew that he was surrounded by enemies, by warriors of the Sawsan territory and Princess Perrie herself. The only food they received were the scraps that were also tossed aside to the dogs — gristle, and bits of chicken and bread that had already gone moldy.

For two days, the contingent traveled only at night, the number of accompanying soldiers dwindling the further they traveled toward the mountains. It appeared that Princess Perrie’s companions were returning to their homes along the way, retiring to tiny houses and nondescript goat farms nestled deep within the forest. During the day, Princess Perrie directed the remaining travelers to caves and abandoned barns, ordering a rotation of warriors to watch Harry, Louis, and Liam while the rest of the camp slept.

And so for two nights, Harry acclimated himself to the steady bump of the wagon and spoke only to Liam, and only in his mother tongue. When Harry closed his eyes, he could pretend it was just the two of them, two silly boys and the moon.

“I’m so, so sorry, Harry,” Liam said that very first night, the words coming out thick and watery. He sniffled, but mucus had already started to seep from his nose. He lifted a shoulder and attempted to smear it onto his doublet, but it hardly made a difference. They were both filthy — dirty, sweat-stained, and splattered with blood.

It wasn’t the first time they had seen each other in such a state, but the other circumstances had been far different. Back in Holmes against a backdrop of gray skies and the threat of rain. Liam trying to put Harry through the paces, prodding him into practicing his swordsmanship in the courtyard. The air rang with the clang of metal and Harry’s exasperated wheezing. Liam only ever stopped when Harry was bleeding and bruised, his arms sore under the weight of his father’s sword. 

Now they were captives, bartering pieces in a game that was much larger than either one of them. “I failed you,” Liam continued. “I failed your mother. I promised Queen Anne I would keep you safe in our new, adopted home, and I didn’t. I’m so fucking sorry, Harry — ”

“Liam,” Harry hissed. But Liam just continued to snivel, his face reddening as he cried. It seemed like something had broke within him, the tears streaming unbidden like he was a babe. “Liam, stop. _Please_.”

“I promised, Haz,” Liam insisted. “I promised her — swore on my honor and my life that I would be by your side. She trusted me, seemed so relieved that I would be accompanying you. ‘My son is so lucky to have a friend like you,’ she’d said. And now Queen Anne’s dead and who knows what will happen?”

“My mother wouldn’t blame you for this, and we’re not going to die,” Harry said, but Liam just shook his head and cried harder. “You really can’t blame yourself for this, okay? It’s my fault. I was the one who tried to take care of Shahid on my own. I’m the one who allowed him to live. I’m the one who allowed this to happen.”

“It’s not your fault, Haz. You didn’t know — ”

“And you didn’t either,” Harry interrupted. “Neither of us knew the danger of the silly games we were playing. Jealousy, court gossip, and who’s bedding who. _None of it matters_. Even after Zayn was hurt — we still didn’t realize what we were up against. _I_ didn’t realize. We both thought the war was over, that we could return to vapid amusements, but the war has only just begun. So don’t you dare beat yourself up about this, Liam. You can’t. I need you at your best and sharpest.”

Liam nodded, bottom lip wobbling. Thankfully, he gradually stopped crying. “You’re right,” Liam croaked. “We aren’t going to die.”

Harry nodded. “We won’t.” 

“We both need to be strong. And — and I need to regain my strength, because I’m going to kill her,” Liam said suddenly, his tone flat and matter-of-fact. “Whether it’s in a day, or a month, or a year. Princess Perrie’s life is mine.”

“Because of what she did to Louis?”

Liam turned, his features slipping into something so sad, Harry almost flinched from it. “No, Harry. Because of what she wants to do to you.”

 

“Can’t you see it?” Liam whispered on the second night. 

Their escort continued through the woods, using only the dim light of the moon as a guide. There were only twenty or so of them now — Harry assumed they were all Princess Perrie’s most trusted servants. Leigh-Anne was among them, as well as the tanned girl with long, dark hair who stood guard over them for several hours every morning.

“See what?” Harry asked, his eyes glued to the sky above them. There were so many stars. Harry had recently taken to talking to them in his head, praying to the gods that Zayn was looking at the same stars, too, and was only a day behind them.

Sometimes Harry prayed for Louis. He had been unconscious for the past day and a half and his skin had yet to regain its youthful coloring. A few times Harry startled from sleep, thinking that Louis had died. He would press his ear to Louis’ chest and wait for his heartbeat. Louis’ heart continued to thump and he continued to breathe, low and steady. 

“The castle,” Liam said. “Can’t you see the castle?”

Harry turned his head, squinting into the darkness. Clouds were starting to move in from the north, thick and gray. Harry wondered if they would bring fresh snow. But all Harry could see beyond that was the start of a mountain range, snow-capped, blue-gray and imposing.

“No. All I see are the stupid mountains.”

Liam huffed out an impatient breath. “Look at the mountains, Harry.”

Harry frowned and peered harder, eyes widening as he finally saw what Liam _wanted_ him to see. 

The castle _was_ the mountain, or part of it, at least. Immediately before them were modest farms and several houses with triangular roofs. A path from the tiny village wound from the mountain base to an uneven door within the rock which barred the castle entrance. The castle walls themselves were etched into the rock, jagged and uneven, so Harry could not tell where the structure began and the mountain ended. Harry glimpsed a lookout of sorts in the mountain’s crest, but otherwise the castle looked like the other mountains within the range.

Harry had never seen anything like it.

The cart rumbled to a stop and Princess Perrie dismounted from her horse, her remaining companions following her lead. As they traveled deeper into the woods, she’d begun to dress more demurely, covering her blonde hair with a hood and wearing a long, dark dress and robes instead of breeches. But this did not make her any less intimidating. “Take Tomlinson into the village,” Princess Perrie instructed. “And blindfold those two and bring them into the cave. Separately.”

Harry gulped down panic as Leigh-Anne did as she was told, taking a soiled handkerchief and tying it around his eyes. He took a deep breath as he was pushed out of the cart, landing unsteadily onto the packed ground below.

Harry was not sure where he was led, but he knew it was not up the path he had spotted from outside the village. Instead, he was guided down a trail overrun with growth, branches and bushes whipping at the thin robes he’d since been clothed in. He walked for more than an hour before he finally heard a door creak, and then he was ambushed by cold air. Harry shivered as his boots slipped against an icy floor, his companion cursing when Harry found it difficult to remain upright.

 

Finally, someone removed Harry’s blindfold. He opened his eyes, expecting to wince at harsh brightness, but the lighting that confronted him was blessedly dim. Harry turned, his eyes tracking the space he found himself in.

Harry was in a small room, meagerly furnished with a bed, table, and lantern. There were no windows and only one door. The walls were nothing more than brownish-gray rocks.

Leigh-Anne and Princess Perrie stood against the doorway, staring at Harry pensively.

Harry averted his eyes and waited.

“You’ll be staying here for the time being,” Princess Perrie said, gesturing at the sparse room before her. “We’ll be untying you momentarily and will feed you. Your countryman is also on this floor.”

Harry nodded, unsure whether he actually believed the Princess or not. “And Louis?”

Princess Perrie smiled. “He’s also close. I have taken him to the village doctor, but when he is well, we shall bring him here. He’ll be so close you will be able to hear his screams during the night.”

“If he dies — ”

Princess Perrie didn’t even bother to hide her disdain, sneering at Harry like he were a nuisance she was rapidly losing patience with. “He won’t die — at least not needlessly. And neither will you. Your sweet, dear Prince Zayn already knows you’re both safe.”

“How — ?”

“Your hair and the bastard’s hand,” Princess Perrie replied. “Have you forgotten already, you silly boy? I sent the so-called King a piece of Louis and a piece of you.”

Harry turned away from the Princess with a shudder. Princess Perrie watched the motion almost curiously, tilting her head to the side and pursing her lips.

“They talked about you at the brothel, you know,” she said. “I’d escaped there after I heard the rumors that the Healys were looking for me — that they wanted to kill me. Lady Swift never liked me and I was not going to take any chances. I figured the brothel was the one place no one would ever think to look for me, and I was right. I served food and ale and fought off the disgusting, pathetic commoners who wanted to pay for a night with me. And I waited for someone to find me — to rescue me. Like a silly little girl waiting for her prince, waiting for her knight. 

“Some of the other girls had seen you in the marketplace, walking around outside of the university. They said you were beautiful. They said you were charming. They said I would swoon if I ever saw you, that I would gladly take your gold coins if you ever came into the brothel and asked for me. 

“But they also said that it took you months to learn Nia — that you hadn’t bothered to learn the language before arriving in the capital. They said there were rumors you fucked Tomlinson and that the men you brought from Holmes were all your former suitors. They said that you tricked the King and Queen into thinking you were decent, but really you were nothing more than another buffoon of a royal, a pretty face who only offered our dear Prince Zayn a warm bed.

“I was optimistic,” Princess Perrie continued. “I was so sure that someone who had tricked the Prince into adopting children — and yes, word of this had made its way to us — was far cleverer than what these girls were saying. But I see now that they were right. That you are a buffoon, that you are just a pretty face. I must declare myself _disappointed_ , Harry.”

Harry blinked, clenching his jaw. “I was not aware that I needed to impress you.”

Princess Perrie grinned, licking her lips almost lecherously. “You don’t owe me anything, you’re right. And if you behave, we won’t have any problems. You are a silly little boy, but I will admit that you do have honor. Offering Shahid the chance to leave, rather than demanding his life — that was the decision of an honorable man. It shows you are a better man than Prince Zayn, who ordered Justin’s murder but could not bring himself to do the deed. 

“I match honor with honor, Harry. So I will ransom you and return you to your husband when the time is right.”

Harry lifted his chin defiantly. “And if I don’t behave?”

“Then I will ransom you and return you to your husband when the time is right,” the Princess repeated. “But for every outburst, for every incident of poor behavior, I will take another piece of Tomlinson — or begin taking pieces of your countryman, the knight. A finger here, maybe a foot there. And maybe we won’t make each nick as clean as my first hack. I will keep you safe, keep you alive, but I don’t promise the same for those two. Do I make myself clear?”

Harry gulped, his mind flashing to the image of Princess Perrie’s sword biting through Louis’ flesh. Harry didn’t think he could bear to see something like that happen ever again, and especially not to Liam. He’d go mad.

“Crystal,” Harry murmured.

“Good,” the Princess said, smiling. She really was quite pretty when she wasn’t covered in someone else’s blood. She reminded Harry of a smaller version of Taylor or Gigi. It seemed as though all of the women Zayn had expressed some sort of romantic interest in favored each other. “You’re quite lucky, you know. If I were a royal of a different, baser sort, I’d pass you amongst my men as retribution. I’d let my ladies have a taste of you as well, and flood the mountains with your bastards. 

“But fortunately enough for you, I’m an honorable ruler. You will stay in this room for the time being. When your knight stops misbehaving, I might even bring him to stay here with you. In the meantime, the servants will bring you anything you desire. Just knock on the door. Understood?”

Harry nodded, ducking his head to avoid Princess Perrie’s eyes. But he still caught her self-satisfied chuckle, and he felt the brief swipe of her hand when she brushed her palm over his shaved head.

Leigh-Anne untied Harry’s ropes, dropping them to the floor as though they disgusted her. Then she and the Princess left the room and Harry exhaled when he heard the low thud of a lock clicking into place. 

Harry sighed, sitting on the bed and flexing his fingers to restore feeling to them. He knew he was in the mountains, but otherwise he had no clue where he was. He was uncertain where his companions were being held. He was cold and hungry. He was petrified. 

And, perhaps most horrifically, Harry was alone.

 

**_Jack the Archer and the Ransomed Son_ **

 

Jack the Archer departed the Knight-Errant’s company in a whirl of tears and well-wishes. Tessa the Wise bid him health and success, and Autumn the Animal-Whisperer corralled the dogs and badgers and squirrels and ravens to watch over her friend as he journeyed back to his kinsmen. The Knight-Errant similarly prepared Jack for his travels, gifting him with a bow so old and rare it was whispered that it had once belonged to one of the First Men.

“You will find Luke,” Jack said to his mentor, the Knight-Errant. “You will find your friend and everything will be set to rights.”

“And you will find your brother,” the Knight-Errant said. “You will defend your homeland against vandals and thieves, and they will sing of your chivalry across seas and for endless moons.”

So Jack the Archer packed his things and slung the Knight-Errant’s bow across his back, sojourning toward the Riverlands that had once been his home.

Jack the Archer encountered many good men, and many cruel ones as well. But Jack was a pious knight, the sole squire of the Knight-Errant. The gods guided him well and true, kept his belly full and his horse healthy. He was able to make his way back to his home court, where he greeted his mother and father. There he was told of the sad fate of his brother, the boy who Jack had play-fought with sticks as a child.

“Your brother was kidnapped and ransomed while attempting to visit his betrothed,” his father said. “Winter is coming and our reserves are not as full as they should be, but we will pay the ransom nonetheless.”

“No,” Jack the Archer said. “Winter is coming, true, but we are not paying a ransom. I will battle for my brother’s honor and guarantee his return to the lands of our birth.”

Jack’s parents protested, but he could not be dissuaded. His pride and honor had blinded him. He and his father’s best men traveled toward the mountains, shivering and cold as they made the climb. 

The man who captured Jack’s brother was a renowned swordsman. Jack the Archer was not. And so when Jack demanded the release of his brother and the captor challenged Jack to a duel, Jack should have declined and proposed alternate terms. But he was consumed with love for his brother and the folly that frequently devours men who are convinced of their rightness.

And so the captor gripped his sword and sliced through flesh and blood and bone, hacking Jack’s hand clean from his body. 

Jack screamed while his brother looked on, yielding when the captor made to remove his head from the rest of him as well. Jack screamed again when he was dragged into the castle and had his wounds tended to by a clumsy maester with little regard for Jack’s life. And Jack screamed again when Tessa the Wise found him three months later, wandering the countryside in disgrace.

“The Knight-Errant has been searching for you,” Tessa said, in her low and soothing tone. “He needs you. Your brother needs you. Together, we will rescue him.”

“I am no longer fit to be in the Knight-Errant’s presence,” Jack said. “He trained me to be a chivalrous man, fair and true. He trained me to be a good sword and a better archer. He brought me a bow from one of the First Men, and all I’ve brought him is disgrace. I can no longer hold a bow and arrow — what use am I to the Good Knight?”

“You are Jack the Archer,” Tessa said. “The best bowman Westeros has ever seen. The Knight-Errant will find you another bow. He will find you another arrow. And he will find you another hand.”


	23. Part Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had nothing and he had nothing to distract him.

When Harry was being transported to the caves, he hardly slept. Instead, he squinted against the sun’s harsh rays and dozed to the bleating and titter of animals. He watched guards rotate in and out of position and tried to tune out the soldiers’ bawdy banter. He listened to Liam’s faint snores and tried to ignore his intermittent tears. And, occasionally, he placed his head beside Louis’ chest to check for a heartbeat. Louis’ breaths were low but his heart thrummed still, strong and steady. 

Once Harry was in the caves, filthy, exhausted, but thankfully unrestrained, he assumed that sleep would greet him with the gentle caress of an old lover. Harry’s lips were cracked and the skin on his face was dry and badly sunburned. There were nasty welts on his wrists from the days of wearing ropes. Princess Perrie’s servants provided him with stale bread and water, but Harry had a hard time keeping anything down. He spent half of his time lying in bed, shivering, staring at the brownish-gray rocks above him, and the other half leaning over his chamber pots, retching.

He had nothing and he had nothing to distract him. There were no windows, no fireplaces, no books. He could hear nothing but the occasional footstep past his door and Princess Perrie’s servants did not engage him in conversation. He laid on his bed and reached out with his mind, willing sleep to come. 

But it didn’t. 

Instead, the days passed in a slow pulse of insomnia and discomfort. 

 

Harry did the only thing he could — he endured. He lived, despite hope, despite the hint of a rescue. 

He passed his days with only his thoughts and regrets. He spent days hating himself for falling headfirst into this walking terror. He prayed to gods he had long forgotten. He cried for Sarah and Joshua and Tessa. And, for reasons he couldn’t entirely understand, he waited for a sign from the Princess or her minions.

 

When sleep finally arrived, Harry was initially greeted by nightmares, horrifying and familiar in their regularity. 

He was back in Jinan, wandering the capital’s castle. He was alone, looking for his husband’s phantasm in the winding maze. Overhead, dragons flew, blocking the sun from view. Forward, fire raged, horrible and unrestrained. And behind him, there was nothing.

He watched, again and again, as the Princess’ blade sliced through flesh and bone, recoiling from the flash of terror in Louis’ blue, blue eyes. 

And he was forced to relive that moment of abject despair, watching men bind Taylor to a tree. Her hair whipped about her face and she screamed for help until her throat fell hoarse. Harry watched her writhe against her bonds until the trees engulfed her entirely, until she was a lone flash of white in the night sky.

 

But then Harry’s regular, freakish nightmares came to be sprinkled with something far stranger. 

For a brief sliver of time, Harry was not _himself_. He would somehow slip his skin. Become something else. Be somewhere else.

It was easy and comfortable, like pulling on a new coat. He skulked through the woods, letting his snout drive his movements. Nearby, there was always the stench of horses and jackasses, as well as dogs that gave him a wide berth. And closer still were the familiar and comforting musk of his humans. 

But one night, the dream lasted longer than a few moments. For a longer sliver of time, Harry experienced something _more_ than the blur of one fantasy edging into another. 

For one night, Harry was free.

 

Harry awoke with a sudden start, shaking out his fur. He’d fallen asleep in the makeshift camp, right as the men around him had gotten a fire to catch and set their meat to cook. In the interim, night fell, the men traipsing off to sleep or stand guard. His companion’s mate was still close, his scent strong and recognizable. 

They had traveled a long way, deep into the woods of Harry’s birth. The humans called these lands the Sawsan. Their journey was sluggish, burdened by the humans’ inherent awkwardness and strange blockages in the road — unnaturally felled trees, rock slides, and other diversions meant to frustrate and disorient. But the men sojourned steadily nonetheless. 

Thankfully, Harry was allowed to go hunting by himself whenever he pleased. He gorged, reveling in the thrill and the freedom. He stalked and preyed, tore warm flesh from bone and howled into the night. He often returned to his humans with choice game grasped in his jaw.

Harry and the humans were looking for his friend, for the man who brought him treats and scratched through his fur when he was a small pup. Harry could smell the missing human, but as the sun rose and fell with each progressing day, the scent became fainter and fainter, little more than a whisper in the wind. 

Harry tilted his jaw upwards, ready to howl in longing for the human he’d adapted as a pack mate, but he detected a scent, strong and heavy with fear. And _familiar_. Harry turned his snout, inhaling deeply. 

“Tessa?” his companion’s mate asked, stirring from sleep and turning to regard Harry with bleary eyes. The other humans called him Zayn. He was sharp but kind, always bringing Harry treats. The agitation oozing from his skin reminded Harry of the new scent he’d detected. “Do you have something, girl?”

Harry pawed at the ground, attempting to locate the exact location of the new scent. It seemed to be coming from the east, deeper into the woods. Harry rose and took off in that direction, the sharp bite of wind a welcome relief after the heat of the fire. Behind him, Harry could hear Zayn’s shout, and then the heavy, labored plods of men trying to keep pace with a wolf.

Harry didn’t know how long he had been running before the scent became overwhelming. _Close_. Harry recognized it from days spent in the hedges with his human, but it had never been spiked with ragged exhaustion like this before. If Harry didn’t know any better, he would let his mouth run over with slobber in anticipation of an easy meal. But Harry was not on the hunt for prey. He was on the hunt for his companion, the human with milky skin and a sweet smile.

Finally, Harry reached a break in the woods. He let his snout guide him past twigs and a discarded wagon, to two cadavers long cold. Harry gave them a contemplative nudge, tearing the throat of one whose neck was already sliced clean from ear to ear. The flesh gave way easily, maggots bursting forth from the wound. Harry spat out the old meat with a snarl.

The girl was sleeping fitfully, her breath sharp and ragged. Her clothes were in filthy tatters, her skin inflamed from the curious nibbles of bugs and small beasts. 

Harry pressed his snout to her leg and she came to with a start, her eyes wide with panic. She flailed, pulling her legs away from Harry’s curious inspection.

“Oh gods,” she said, voice hoarse. “Please, please, _please_ — ”

“Taylor!” Zayn’s voice rang out loud in the clearing. Harry turned to the noise, his tongue lolling out at the familiar sight of his companion’s mate. Another one of his human pack mates was coming up, too, the man with fair hair and light eyes. _Niall_ , Harry’s mind supplied. Niall was breathing heavily, face flushed with exertion. Harry knew that the other humans would be arriving soon, with horses and dogs that shied away from Harry whenever he ventured too close.

“Tessa, down,” Zayn said. Harry regarded the woman once more before retreating, bounding back to Zayn. Zayn was still wound tight, stinking heavily of fright, but Harry could hear a small modicum of relief in his voice, too. “Good girl. _Good girl_.”

Harry stayed in the middle of the clearing while Zayn hurriedly made his way to the woman, tugging against the ropes that restrained her. He huffed in frustration before removing a flash of steel from the leather at his waist, slicing at the restraints until they fell away. The woman fell forward, shivering with shock and the cold. Zayn cursed, pulling off his cloak, and tucked it around her shoulders.

“She’s the only one here, Your Highness,” Niall called. He circled the clearing, scowling at the two dead humans. 

Zayn gulped, gesturing toward the cadavers. “Are those — ?”

“No,” Niall responded, shaking his head. “They’re wearing brigandine. The kidnappers’ hired muscle, most like.”

The woman attempted to speak between shudders, licking her lips frantically. “S-s-she t-t-t-took them,” she said. “A-a-after s-s-she c-c-cut him.”

“Cut who?” Zayn asked, crouching before the woman. He reached out to touch her, but hesitated, drawing his hand back instead. “Taylor? Who did she cut?”

“S-s-s-she s-s-said y-y-you w-w-would g-g-get it. I s-s-saw h-h-h-her — ” And then water sprouted from her eyes and the woman could no longer communicate with the others.

Zayn stood, hastily returning his steel to its leather. His man-paws were trembling, making the task difficult, so he muttered angrily under his breath. When he finally looked up again, it was to turn his eyes to the stars. 

There was water in his eyes, too.

Harry turned his eyes to the cosmos as well, letting out a mournful howl as the men and their horses started to arrive.

 

Leigh-Anne was trembling. In one hand, she held a lantern. Her other palm hovered over Harry’s face, the skin a flicker of brown in the weak light. 

Harry sat up and threw his hands behind him, scraping his fingers around the hard, unforgiving rock of his room. He inched away from Leigh-Anne and her wide, discerning eyes until his back tapped the wall.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Leigh-Anne said. She seemed torn between forcing out a chuckle and maintaining an aura of cool aloofness. Perhaps as a compromise, she blinked and tightened her fingers around the lantern in her grasp. “You were just — you were talking in your sleep.”

Harry stared at her, resisting the urge to pull his legs into his chest like a child. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“No, no,” Leigh-Anne stuttered. “No reason to apologize. I was the one who woke you.”

Harry continued to stare. This was the first time he’d held a conversation with another human in — gods. _Days_. Maybe a week. Perhaps more. He had tried to keep track of how often the servants brought him food, but he suspected they were feeding him and emptying his chamber pots irregularly.

Leigh-Anne wavered uncertainly for a moment before leaning in close to Harry once more. “You never said that you have the gift.” And then she said a word Harry had never heard before. 

Confusion must have flashed across his face because Leigh-Anne smiled, her white teeth glittering in the dimness. “Sorry. I’m not sure how to say it in your husband’s tongue.”

“Nia isn’t your first language?”

“Gods, no,” Leigh-Anne replied. “I was born in Meereen. We moved to the New Continent when I was very young, and my family worked for Princess Perrie’s mother. I’ve known her since we were both little girls playing with sticks.”

“And that word,” Harry said. “The word you used — ”

“It means ‘ _the sight_ ,’” Leigh-Anne interrupted. “Do you understand?”

Harry inhaled sharply. “Greensight?” he attempted, switching to the Common Tongue.

Leigh-Anne nodded, her face transforming with the grin that split across her face. “Yes!”

Harry had heard tales of greensight before. It was said to be a gift of the First Men, the first inhabitants of Westeros. Some legendary figures were said to possess the talent, but the ability was relegated to the realm of myths after the war against the Others. Now, the tales of prophetic dreams only existed amongst the religious, and was the result of long, dedicated training. Harry certainly didn’t have the ability. 

“But that’s — that’s not right,” Harry said. “How could I even — ?”

“You were talking,” Leigh-Anne insisted. “I _heard_ you. You saw Prince Zayn. You know where he is right now.”

Harry shook his head. “No. No I don’t. It was only a — a fever dream.”

“And you have never had a dream like this before? A dream where you saw something strange and then it came true?”

Harry shook his head, even though he knew this to be a lie.

This was certainly the first dream where Harry had inhabited Tessa’s form for a prolonged period of time. But this wasn’t the first dream he’d had where he _saw_ something, only for it to occur later. Hadn’t he been plagued with nightmares of a betrayer stalking him through the castle, only to discover Justin and Shahid’s plot against his life? Hadn’t he seen Princess Perrie, her sword slick with blood? And hadn’t he seen Louis, holding the stump of his own arm, only days before it became a shocking reality?

And those were only the most recent dreams. Harry somehow saw his mother’s murder when Nick came to the capital to tell them the news of Earl George’s shocking betrayal.

Leigh-Anne smiled at Harry knowingly. “Come, stand. We’re leaving this room.”

Harry tried to push himself further away from Leigh-Anne, but there was nowhere to go. “ _Why_?”

“You smell rancid,” Leigh-Anne said. “And the Princess wants you to join her for dinner.”

Harry furrowed his brow. “Pardon?”

“You aren’t our enemy, Prince Harry. The interloper Yaser is.”

Harry shook his head. “I still don’t understand.”

“We aren’t cruel vandals,” Leigh-Anne said, even though Harry had watched her stab a man only a few days prior. “We promised you your safety. And I’m sure you must be very hungry. Wouldn’t a bath and a decent meal be nice?”

Harry _was_ hungry, but he didn’t trust the smile on Leigh-Anne’s face. He didn’t like that she had access to his room and that she stood over him while he slept. How was he to be sure that this was the first time she’d done so?

He remembered how her face contorted with effort when she grabbed the mercenary, thrusting her knife into his underarm. There had been so much blood. Leigh-Anne _terrified_ Harry. And rightfully so. She still carried a sword on each hip.

He could probably overpower Leigh-Anne, but he had no weapon and did not want to kill her if he didn’t have to. He didn’t know how many people were in this castle. He didn’t even know where he _was_. He didn’t know where Louis and Liam were, either, and he doubted they were being held nearby. 

It was reassuring to know that Zayn was out there, somewhere, looking for him, but it didn’t change the fact that Harry was absolutely fucked for the time being.

“I am,” Harry settled upon saying. “Hungry, that is.”

Leigh-Anne nodded. “Let’s get you decent,” she said. And then she reached for Harry’s arm and hauled him clean out of bed.

 

Leigh-Anne blindfolded Harry and guided him out of his room. He tried to count his steps as he walked down a flight of stairs and to his right. Then, there was a creak of a door, and Harry was pushed into a warm, steamy room. Leigh Anne took off his blindfold and stood against the entrance, her arms crossed over her chest.

“It’s a mineral pool. The water is naturally warm.”

Harry blinked as his eyes adjusted, taking in the low ceilings and bubbling pool of water before him.

“Well?” Leigh-Anne prodded. “Your body isn’t anything I haven’t seen before. There’s soap on the edge for you to use, and I have new robes for you, too. The ones you’re wearing are abhorrent.”

Harry bit his lip and undressed quickly before gingerly lowering himself into the water. His entire body ached and had for a while. He remembered being tossed against his head out of his bed. He remembered long rides in the back of two wagons. He remembered all of the stress he was holding in his shoulders and jaw and lower back. 

The pool was uncomfortably hot but Harry dunked his head underneath regardless, scratching against his now bare scalp and watching as grime sloughed off his body and into the lapping waves.

Leigh-Anne let Harry wash unhurriedly and even smiled when Harry swam the length of the pool. It was impossible to feel relaxed considering the circumstances — being a hostage, feeling uncertain and terrified and hungry — but he at least felt a little closer to human once Leigh-Anne announced that they were due to meet Princess Perrie.

Leigh-Anne gestured at the new clothes Harry was to wear and he pulled them on without fuss. They were nothing special, just a doublet and breeches, plus a robe. All of the garments were black and simple, and the robe was slightly too short in the arms. Nonetheless, Leigh-Anne nodded in approval once Harry was done, pronouncing, “You almost look like a proper Prince again.”

She then had Harry turn so she could put the blindfold on once more.

They exited the bathing room, turned right, then walked up what felt like several flights of stairs. They turned left, then right, and then another right. Harry very quickly lost the number of steps.

Harry was sweating when Leigh-Anne finally directed him to stop. She murmured something under her breath and another person responded in a language that was neither Nia nor the Common Tongue. Then Harry heard the creak and swing of a door, and his stomach rumbled at the smell of meat.

Leigh-Anne grabbed Harry’s hand and dragged him forward, prodding him into a chair and removing his blindfold with a flourish.

Harry was sitting at a long, wide table. Two guards stood at the door. One wielded a club, while the other carried a long sword.

Leigh-Anne took the seat to Harry’s right. Across from him were two other women, both beautiful and olive-skinned. Harry didn’t recognize them from the clearing or the subsequent days of travel. Both regarded Harry with naked curiosity. And, finally, Princess Perrie sat at the head of the table and to Harry’s left, wearing a long black dress. On one of her fingers was a diamond ring, huge, gaudy, and at complete odds with the simplicity of their surroundings. Harry wondered if the ring was a betrothal gift from Zayn and the royal family.

Princess Perrie smiled once she caught Harry’s eye and for a jolting moment she reminded Harry of the woman _he_ was supposed to marry in Holmes. Earl George’s daughter. Harry couldn’t recall the last time he’d consciously thought of the girl. But, like Princess Perrie, Harry’s betrothed was slight, beautiful, and the daughter of fierce warriors.

Harry felt a pulse of hatred for both of them.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, my dear,” Princess Perrie said, raising her goblet in a toast. “You certainly clean up well.”

She swept her eyes over Harry, lingering on the sliver of exposed skin at his neck. Harry inhaled, sharp and shuddering, before turning to his own goblet. 

“ _If I were a royal of a different, baser sort, I’d pass you amongst my men as retribution_ ,” she had said the last time they encountered each other. “ _I’d let my ladies have a taste of you as well, and flood the mountains with your bastards_.” In the moment, Harry had felt something approximating relief. But now, watching the slide of her eyes over his body, he couldn’t help but wonder whether the Princess was merely meaning to keep him for herself.

His hand shook around his cup, but he still downed the contents in one long gulp.

 

Servants brought out a sparse meal — a soup consisting of goat meat and potatoes, bread, and raspberries with cream as dessert. It was paltry compared to the dinners of Harry’s youth in Holmes, and was an absolute pittance compared to the grand feasts held in Jinan. But Harry was sick and tired of stale bread, so he shoveled food into his mouth without even thinking.

Halfway through a second bowl of soup, Leigh-Anne gripped Harry’s wrist, her nails digging into the tender skin. Harry sucked in a quick, shocked breath. “Pace yourself,” Leigh-Anne hissed. “You’ll make yourself sick, scarfing your food like a pig.”

“No need to be rough with the boy,” one of the newcomers said, a woman named Jesy. “He’s probably never been properly hungry before in his life.”

Princess Perrie chuckled. “You heard the woman, Leigh-Anne. If the Harlot of Holmes wants to make himself sick, that’s his choice.”

Leigh-Anne dropped Harry’s wrist and turned back to her meal. Harry cradled his hand underneath the table, running his fingers over the sensitive skin, still inflamed from rope burn.

“So, Prince Harry,” the other unfamiliar woman, Jade, said. She, like all of the others, was petite, with long, dark hair and deceptively kind eyes. She unnerved Harry in a way that others didn’t quite manage. “Tell us about yourself.”

Harry coughed. “Pardon?”

“Tell us how you came to our shores,” Jade continued, as though Harry was not a captive. As though she were a normal noble at Harry’s court and not a traitor. As though she were legitimately interested in Harry’s story. “We know so little of Holmes and of you, and I confess myself to be most curious. How have you found our kingdom? And how is your marriage to Prince Zayn?”

Harry shook his head in disbelief. “Wha — why?”

“Your bodyguard won’t indulge her with useless gossip, so she thinks you might,” Jesy said with an exaggerated wink. 

“My — my bodyguard?”

“Liam,” Jade said, her smile widening. “The handsome, gallant knight from Holmes. I’m tending to him. He was quite a horror. He had a nasty cut on his head and was bruised all over.”

Harry turned to Princess Perrie, feeling fury and helplessness rise within him. “You _said_ — ”

“I know what I said,” the Princess said, tone defensive. “And I’ve kept my word. You have not done anything untoward, besides waste all of your food. Jade’s not hurting the oaf.”

“Then why does he have bruises?”

“From the ghastly fight in the capital, I presume,” Jade interjected. “I _told_ you not to trust Shahid to get the job done — ”

“Yes, yes, Shahid butchered everything,” Leigh-Anne said with a wave of her hand. “But things have worked out okay. We left the Healy bitch in the woods where she belongs and Tomlinson was taken down a notch, too. And you wouldn’t have your precious knight to toy with if Shahid hadn’t had the foresight to take him, by the way. We’ll receive the ransom and we can return to a life of anonymity in the Sawsan.”

“He’s not my toy,” Jade protested. “And I cannot _believe_ how naive all of you are being. You heard the message from the border. Prince Zayn’s troops are already in the mountains. And there are rumors that the Harris heir is dead.”

Princess Perrie turned her head sharply. “I’ve not heard this news. Who told you that?”

Jade shifted in her seat, looking guilty. “A raven came yesterday from the capital. It was unsigned, but — ”

“Gigi?” Jesy asked, her eyes wide and shocked. Harry sat up a little straighter in his seat. Harry hadn’t thought of Gigi since he’d found himself in this mess. “You’re still communicating with _her_?” 

“You’re exchanging ravens with that traitor?” Princess Perrie rasped. “After what she did to me?”

“It was wrong to banish her from the mountains,” Jade said, the words streaming from her mouth all in a rush. “You cannot convince me otherwise. Where was she going to go _but_ the capital? She was always fond of Prince Zayn — wanted him all for herself at one point, didn’t she? She’ll tell Prince Zayn everything she knows.”

Harry’s mind flashed with a memory. “ _She was close to Princess Edwards as a girl_ ,” Louis had said of Gigi once, back when they were all healthy and in the capital. But the Princess banished Gigi from the Sawsan. Harry wondered what Gigi had done to merit such a harsh sentence.

Regardless of what she had done, all of this meant Gigi was lying when she first arrived in Jinan. She told everyone that she had scoured the kingdom searching for the missing Princess. Harry had believed her.

Princess Perrie shook her head, briefly regarding Harry. “We shouldn’t have this conversation now. It’s rude to our guest.”

“I’m sure he already knows,” Leigh-Anne said, a smirk teasing her lips. Harry’s eyes widened and he shook his head minutely at Leigh-Anne, praying for her to stop talking, but she continued on nonetheless. “He has _the sight_ , Your Highness. I heard him speaking in his sleep.”

The entire table fell silent. Harry ducked his head to study his soup. Fat was starting to congeal along the sides of his bowl, and chunks of meat floated to the top when Harry raised his spoon to prod the broth.

“The sight,” Princess Perrie repeated, voice devoid of inflection. “What in the world do you mean?”

“He called out Taylor’s name,” Leigh-Anne said. “And he was mumbling about Prince Zayn. Didn’t the messenger say royal troops found the clearing?”

“That means nothing,” Princess Perrie said, tossing her napkin onto the table with disgust. “He was probably having a nightmare. What have I told you — ?”

Leigh-Anne shook her head fiercely. “You didn’t see him, Your Highness. He looked like he was in a trance. His eyes were rolled back into his head and he was — ” Leigh-Anne stopped suddenly, pursing her lips and glancing at Harry.

“What?” Jesy prodded. “He was what?”

Leigh-Anne looked at Harry apologetically before barreling onward. “He was howling. I’ve never heard anything like it.”

“Howling? Like — like a _wolf_?” Princess Perrie asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. She scoffed, mouth poised to fire off a retort, but Jade interrupted her.

“The raven said Prince Zayn set a wolf on the Harris heir and his wife.”

Harry’s fingers gripped around his spoon. He refused to meet anyone’s eyes.

Silence stretched out around them, think and contemplative. Finally, Princess Perrie spoke. “We’ll have the witch look at him on the morrow. But for now, get out. All of you.”

The women raised in unison.The guard with a club strode forward, grabbing Harry and hoisting him from his chair.

 

Harry stood still as Leigh-Anne wrapped a blindfold around his eyes. He let her drag him back to his room. He stood still again as she removed the cloth from his eyes and ignored the silent plea — for forgiveness or understanding, he could not say — in her eyes. He turned away from her and listened for the latch of a lock. And then he crawled into bed, feeling resigned and bone-weary. 

That night when he closed his eyes, he became his wolf once more.

 

He awoke curled upon a rug in front of a hearth. The heat was rapidly bordering on uncomfortable, but Harry had become used to such temperatures when he and his pack of humans were living among the hedges and tall stones. 

They were far from all that now. They had continued their sojourn deep into the mountains, where he ran free for hours and where the woods abounded with prey. Harry and his pack of two-legged companions had never eaten so well. 

Harry sniffed the air, trying to detect the rest of his pack. Zayn did not leave his side much these days.

Harry raised himself from the rug and padded down the hallway. Harry the human could access the wolf’s memory, and so he saw how the party had seized this small castle five nights prior. The castle was located less than a mile from the clearing where Taylor had been tied, and the castle owners cowered before Zayn’s wrath and his steel. They blubbered that they had heard screams coming from the woods over a fortnight ago, but had absolutely _no idea_ that the beloved Prince Consort was one of the voices.

Zayn did not raise a hand in violence against the traitors, but he did not stop his direwolf from tearing their throats out, either. Harry the beast salivated, remembering how well he had feasted that night. 

Harry found Zayn and his two children in an adjacent room. Adult humans were standing before them, too, including Niall, Matty, and other familiar members of Zayn’s pack. All had steel dangling from the leather at their waists.

Zayn held the smallest human in his arms as he paced the length of the room. The other — a girl — sat on the floor and watched Zayn with a stillness that Harry rarely saw in humans. Like she was tracking her father.

Harry strode the length of the room before settling besides the girl, letting his tongue loll as she dug her fingers into the fur behind his neck.

“ — hoped that she would have something to say,” Zayn said, his movements sharp and twitchy. He held the baby close while the child gnawed on a licorice root with a handful of tiny teeth. “Tessa is only able to track Harry’s scent so far.”

“Her fever is persistent,” Matty answered. “She’s tried to talk, Your Highness, but she isn’t lucid. The magi does not want me to badger her until she’s regained her strength.”

“And even if she did talk, who’s to say she heard the traitors say where they were headed?” Niall rejoined. “We don’t even know if Liam, Louis, and Harry are all together anymore. They clearly had no qualms separating Taylor from the rest. I still say our best bet is to interrogate all of the peasants.”

Harry turned his head toward the archway he arrived through. He scented the hurried arrival of more humans. Their adrenaline was spiked, their heartbeats like the heavy plods of horse hooves. 

Zayn shook his head. “No. The peasants in these lands are hostile and would gladly feed us false information. I — I need Taylor to wake up and tell me what she was talking about when we first found her, or for Gigi to fucking _get here already_ — ”

The new humans arrived in a cacophony of sound. Something was _wrong_. Harry could smell his missing companion amongst them — the scent faint, almost stale — but he did not see the human. Harry flexed his ears straight and upward, and growled. 

“Tessa, down,” Zayn hissed, handing the human pup to Niall. Harry reluctantly did as he was bid, settling back against the ground. “Yes?”

One of the humans was a woman with fair hair and a quiver strapped across her back. _Gigi_ , Harry’s human mind whispered. _She sent a message to Jade from the capital. Does Zayn know that she’s sent ravens to traitors?_

“I apologize, Your Royal Highness,” Gigi said, sinking to a bow before Zayn’s feet. “I wanted to ride as soon as we received your raven, but — but we received a package at court.”

“We sent that raven nearly a fortnight ago,” Zayn barked. “What reason do you have to ignore a direct order from your Prince? Did you not want to come?”

Gigi blanched and fidgeted awkwardly underneath Zayn’s harsh gaze. Her eyes remained transfixed on her boots. “The roads were treacherous, Your Highness, even for one familiar with the territory as I am,” Gigi whispered. “And. Um. We had to — um. Verify.”

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Zayn hissed. Gigi’s eyes snapped upward, quick but uncertain. “I’m not going to repeat myself. What reason did you have to ignore my direct order?”

Gigi bit her lip before turning to one of the other newly arrived humans. “Give him the box.”

A man hurried forward, handing Zayn a small, wooden box. Zayn regarded it curiously before lifting the lid.

Just as quickly, Zayn dropped the box. It landed against the floor with a clatter. Tufts of hair scattered against the wood and through the air, long, brown, and curly.

And there, in the middle of the box, was a severed human hand. 

Harry pricked his ears, turning toward a sound at the door. A woman stood there, her knuckles white where they gripped the doorframe. Harry _knew_ her, recognized her scent. She tended to the children, even though Zayn didn’t trust her.

“Fuck,” Zayn said, breathing hard and uneven. His skin had gone as gray as the hand he was regarding with wide, fearful eyes. “Fuck. Fuck. _Is that_ — ?”

“We weren’t sure,” Gigi began. “We tried to verify — ”

“That’s not his hand,” the little girl — _Sarah,_ Harry thought — interrupted. Everyone in the room turned to stare at her. The girl seemed surprised to be the center of everyone’s attention, but she continued to speak nevertheless. “That’s his hair in the box, but it’s not Daddy’s hand. I’d recognize it.”

Zayn gaped at his child. “W-what?”

“Harry — I mean. My Daddy has nice hands,” Sarah said, gesturing inside the box. “His fingers are long and slender — good for plaiting my hair. These fingers are shorter. They’re not right. They’re not my Harry — _my Daddy’s_ hands.”

Zayn continued to breathe heavily for a long, still moment. Then he reached down, snatching the box from where it had smashed against the floor. This time he gingerly lifted the appendage from the case, studying it with a grimace.

“My gods,” Zayn whispered, blinking back water from his eyes. “She’s right. It’s — ”

“It’s Louis’,” the woman at the door said.

And then the room devolved into chaos. 

 

When Harry awoke in his room again, it was to the disarming sight of a petite, bronzed woman standing over his bed.

Harry threw himself against the wall for the second time in as many days, his heart beating a war drum in his chest.

“Oh, Harry,” Caroline said, looking as healthy and beautiful as the day she and Harry first met. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays!


	24. Part Twenty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He closed his eyes against the creep of pain and reminded himself that he was still alive.

When Harry was fourteen, he and his father embarked on a tour of Holmes’ countryside. They traveled for the next two years, primarily on horseback, bracing against sleet and snow and lashing rain. 

Harry learned all about the kingdom he would one day rule. He visited distant lords and ladies, collected taxes for the war effort, and helped his father rally the small-folk into taking up arms against King Yaser and the mercenaries. He shook hands with nobility and cradled peasants’ babies in his arms. He stood on mountaintops and valleys, at the continent’s edges and along the border of the Riverlands. He knelt on lands left untilled, abandoned by the dead and ruled by ghosts. His boots crunched against gravel and soil and sand, and he wondered what it would be like to live without fear and without responsibility. Without war.

Beyond serving as an opportunity to inspire the masses, the trip was also an opportunity for Harry to bond with his father. Harry had always admired the man, but he did not feel the same easy love for the King that he felt for his mother. There was always a distance between them, a gulf filled to the brim with all the burdens and expectations of being a warrior monarch’s only son. Harry hoped that the hours spent and distances traveled would bring them together and help the King see all that Harry had to offer.

But it rapidly became obvious to Harry that King Des’ only desire was to toughen him up. After setting up camp each day, Harry’s father insisted upon hours of archery, hand-to-hand combat, swordplay, and military history. Harry’s memories of this time consisted of grunts of exertion and the clang of steel as he and Liam practiced under the soft glow of torch fire. Harry ran drills until he was battered and bruised, his fingers fat and swollen where they gripped his practice sword. 

Harry could only ever hope to be a mediocre fighter.

Halfway into the trip, the King finally gave up and left his son to his own devices. Liam continued to use the twilight hours to practice, swinging his sword against the night. Alternately, Harry chose to entertain himself by drinking ale and bedding strangers.

Harry’s voice had dropped by the time they finally returned to Queen Anne’s court. At sixteen, he was a man grown — everyone said so. He’d sprouted almost a full foot since the last time he’d seen his mother, and he loomed over her when he was finally able to hold her in his arms again.

There was a feast to celebrate their homecoming. Harry sat at the head table like a good little prince, a silver crown pressing into the corners of his temple. King Des told tales of their sojourn and the assembled masses cheered at every appropriate moment. Together, the hall toasted to the men fighting to protect Holmes’ borders and for the swift death of King Yaser and his hired swords. Harry drank and drank, until he was slouched in his chair, scanning the room lazily, looking for a lithe body with which to share the good humor.

Queen Anne had at least ten Ladies in Waiting at any given time. The women all sat together, waists cinched in corsets and heads bowed in gossip. The title of Lady in Waiting did not offer much in terms of monetary riches, desperate and cash-strapped as the throne was, but even in times of war, there was tremendous glamor in serving the Queen. Harry let his eyes drift up and down their table, over blondes, brunettes, and a single redhead, and wondered what it would be like to take one of his mother’s Ladies to bed. It would certainly be ill-advised, but for some peculiar reason, Harry didn’t mind the idea of inflicting a little pain on his parents.

Ultimately, Harry’s eyes lingered on Caroline Flack. He dimly remembered her from his youth. Even in his hazy childhood reflections she was beautiful, with tanned skin and long, blonde hair. It looked like she had hardly aged a day in the interim.

Caroline suddenly looked up and met Harry’s eyes across the banquet hall. Harry started, poised to cast his gaze elsewhere, but Caroline smiled, slow and unfurling like a banner. And then she raised her goblet in yet another toast.

Harry grinned in response and raised his glass, too. He downed the cup of wine and felt a rush of expectation settle low in his belly. 

Caroline turned away, eagerly rejoining the conversation with the other Ladies, but Harry continued to stare.

Later, he had Caroline speared on his cock, her mewling cries a sweet triumph to cap off the night.

 

Unfortunately, the sight of Caroline Flack did not provide anything close to relief now.

Harry barked and threw his hands out — to do what, he wasn’t sure — but Caroline caught his wrist easily. Her touch, as always, was inhumanly warm and her nails pinched into the bruises that still purpled his skin. Harry gasped and Caroline’s eyes bulged as she took in the marks. 

“My gods, Harry. What did they do to you?”

Harry violently yanked his arm out of Caroline’s grasp. She stared at him, eyes wide and open-mouthed. “What did they do to me?” Harry parroted. “You lying, traitorous, b— ”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Caroline said, her eyes tracing over Harry’s skin like she was categorizing the changes. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d properly caught his reflection, but he knew he was a far cry from the stately youth Caroline had once bedded. His skin was tinged with yellow and the stubborn fat that had always clung to his waist was starting to melt away. Harry knew he had much to offer and that his entire being did not revolve around his looks, but he still felt ashamed. “My gods, Harry. They’ve cut your hair. Your beautiful, beautiful hair.”

“How dare you,” Harry spat. “As if you didn’t know. My dear captors mentioned you at dinner. They said they would have _a witch_ tend to me and here you are. I’m not stupid. Curses upon you, Caroline — ”

Caroline grabbed Harry’s wrists again, baring down hard enough that he yelped and turned his face away from her beseeching countenance. “Harry. Harry, look at me. Please, I’m begging you.”

“They tried to kill me!” Harry yelled, the words tumbling like a rockslide. “Did you know that? Princess Perrie and the rest of them? They tried to murder me, and instead they nearly killed Zayn in the process. They hired an assassin to burn the castle and destroy everything I hold dear. They left Taylor for dead, they chopped off Louis’ hand, they beat Liam bloody and you’re sitting here pretending as though you’re innocent when _I heard them talking about you_!”

Caroline dropped Harry’s hands and swore under her breath. “My gods.”

“Is that all you have to say for yourself? Curses to gods you don’t even believe in?” Harry demanded. Tears coursed down his face, blurring his vision and seeping into the collar of his clothes. He hated himself for showing weakness in front of Caroline, but his entire life was a spool unraveled. What was one last indignity? “You said you would protect me, Caroline. You swore it. But instead you _ran_. The moment you were confronted, you left me — just like you did when we were in Holmes. And now here you are, working beside murderous, traitorous fiends!”

“No,” Caroline said, reaching forward and grasping Harry’s hands once more. He tried to shake her grasp, but she had health and magic on her side. She was so strong and Harry was weak, with nothing but doubts, regrets, and night terrors to his name. “Gods, Harry. You don’t understand. I left, but I didn’t leave you defenseless. I removed the block.”

“The block?” Harry scoffed. “I have no clue what you’re talking about. Maybe if you stopped talking in bloody riddles for once — ”

“It’s no riddle. Only the truth. The one — and only —- thing I’ve ever truly hidden from you.” 

Harry shook his head. “I have no clue what you’re talking about, witch.”

Caroline sighed. “No, Harry. You wouldn’t.”

Caroline closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath, like she was steeling herself. When she opened her eyes once more, it was to gaze at Harry imploringly.

“When you were very, very young, your mother asked me to serve as a Lady. You know this. The Queen had heard tales of my work, of curses lifted and miracles performed. But it was still an odd request. My father was a red priest and my mother nothing more than his mistress. I am a bastard with no title to my name. I am not the typical selection to join a Queen’s court. But, it was a tremendous honor, and so I obliged.

“Once I arrived, my function became clear. You and your sister, the Princess, were exhibiting strange behaviors. You were both so very young — seven and four — but the two of you had an affinity for animals, including the wolves that skulked beyond the castle grounds. The Queen asked me to watch the two of you very closely.

“I did as I was bid. I tended to you and your sister. It was clear to me after some time that you both harbored the ability to shift skin and become beasts. To warg. This was no huge surprise. You’ve heard your family’s history, that you descend from the noble house of Stark. It is well known that several from this line were skinchangers. With practice and discipline, it is a trait that can be easily managed, even conquered.

“What was a surprise was that one of the Styles children could _see_ things. Prophetic dreams and visions. It is a very, very rare gift, one I had never before witnessed myself, not even during my travels to Red Temples across the narrow sea.”

Caroline took another long, shuddering breath. Her eyes were misty, like fog creeping across a grassy knoll. Harry felt pinned by her. In that moment, he knew he couldn’t turn away even if he tried.

“I told the Queen, as was my duty. And she was so very afraid. Skinchanger children she could handle. But this — this was something else entirely. Who knew what the child might see? And what if the child told of his dreams to the wrong person? Wars have been won and lost based on prophecies. The Queen understood this, so she bid me to hide this gift, to lock it away. 

“And so I did. I blocked this gift from the young Prince’s mind for the next fifteen years.”

Harry shook his head. “I — I don’t understand.”

“Ever since I left you along that wretched coast, you’ve been dreaming strange things, haven’t you?” Caroline said, licking her lips. “I’m sure of it. The gift can go dormant for years, even without outside interference, but it always re-asserts itself after a trauma. And since I’ve left you, you’ve hurt. You’ve bled. You — you’ve obviously suffered.”

_Or you watched your husband burn,_ Harry thought, the voice in his head small but insistent. _And you ate a horse heart in the hopes of becoming a stallion. So much for that._

“The dreams start like regular, recurring nightmares. But there are peculiar details. And, over time, the little peculiarities are what come true.”

“But how can that be?” Harry demanded. “I — it’s just not possible. There’s no such thing as greenseers.”

“Of course there are,” Caroline replied. “I’ve known that for fifteen years.”

Harry took a long, deep breath and closed his eyes. For a moment, he was that boy smiling across the banquet hall, Caroline’s hair golden under the lantern’s flames. He had always trusted her so easily. Too easily, his friends said. He trusted her enough to take her as a lover, and he trusted her enough to heed her messages after she eluded captivity back in Holmes. 

Even now, Harry wanted to believe the tale she was spinning, but the intervening months had made him wary. Because Harry was no longer the smiling, winsome prince. Caroline was right — he _had_ suffered. He wasn’t sixteen anymore, and his world was no longer an alcohol-tinged parade of lovers.

These days, Harry was a captive, and Caroline had deserted him to come play with traitors.

“It doesn’t matter what you say you’ve done for me,” Harry spat. “Especially if the so-called gift you’ve left me are these horrible nightmares. Because at the end of the day, I’m still locked up in this cave, whereas you — trusted confidant of Princess Perrie that you are — appear to have free movement.”

Caroline blanched and finally released Harry’s wrists again. When he peered down, the bruises had partially healed, assuming a faded, pinkish hue. 

“I can explain,” Caroline insisted.

“I would hope so. And I’d hope you start now.”

Caroline nodded. Harry watched her compose herself and tried to feel removed from the swell of her breasts and the long, familiar lines of her throat.

“I wasn’t sure where to go,” she began. “Removing the block was easy — I’d done it for you before as something of a party trick — but the effort left me exhausted. Disappearing so abruptly gave me a decent head start, but I knew Rebecca would try to track me, and I couldn’t go to any of my usual haunts. For a week or so, I wandered aimlessly.

“Eventually I figured it might be best to continue my earlier task — the search for Princess Edwards. I still had no definite leads, but I assumed the hunt would be better than wallowing in self-pity. I decided to move northward to the Sawsan.

“I met the Jade girl first. I’m sure your royal carriages have never taken you along the main routes and that you didn’t know there are a smattering of small towns along the foothills. Jade’s family owns an inn, and I sought a bed under her roof one long, rainy night. I spun her a tale, saying I was a refugee from Holmes who had been turned away from court, but somehow she saw right through me.”

“There’s something discomfiting about her,” Harry interrupted, before resuming his earlier work of staring at his hands.

Caroline nodded. “I’m not surprised you feel that way. I think she’s quite like you.”

Harry wasn’t sure whether he should be offended or not. “How do you mean?”

Caroline smirked. “I think she has the sight as well. Not nearly as strong, obviously, but enough to call bullshit, to know when someone is off. She said I was a liar, and next thing I knew, I was surrounded by Princess Perrie’s personal guard. Jade, Jesy, Leigh-Anne, and an archer named Gigi. They wanted to know why a noblewoman from Holmes had any interest in Princess Perrie.”

Harry bit down on the urge to ask more about Gigi. He had so many questions about the woman — and her loyalties. She arrived at the capital in the days following the fire, offering her sympathy and claiming to be on the search for Princess Perrie. But it was becoming increasingly obvious that Gigi lied. She had been banished by the very woman she claimed to serve. But when? And, most importantly, _why_? 

And why was she still sending messages to Jade in spite of that banishment?

Harry shook his head and focused on Caroline’s story. “What did you tell the Princess’ women once they cornered you?”

“The truth,” Caroline said. “That I’d been working for you, but I wasn’t any longer. And that I could help them find their missing Princess. 

“Eventually I was able to win over their trust. It was only then that I realized that they already knew where the Princess was, and that the young girl was whole and healthy.”

“And everything else?” Harry pressed. “You cannot make me believe that you had no knowledge of their plot to kill me.”

Caroline shook her head, her lips thinning as she pressed them firmly together. To Harry’s horror and dismay, tears collected along her eyelashes and splashed down her cheeks, collecting in the neck of her dress. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I genuinely had no knowledge of their plans,” Caroline whispered. “These ladies — they all hold everything extremely close to the chest. I know they were orchestrating an attack on the capital, yes, but I believed it was a strike against Prince Zayn — ”

“And that makes it better?” Harry roared. It was like a dam broke within him and he was finally able unleash his crushing feelings of sorrow and impotence. And Caroline just _took it_ , with sniffling tears and a bowed head. Their entire dynamic was suddenly and horribly reversed, like the grim, ironic conclusion of the Knight-Errant’s tale. “It was all well and good for them to plot my husband’s demise? _Damn you_ , Caroline. Damn you for constantly plotting and politicking, for pitting Zayn and I against each other, as though it was intrinsically impossible for us to work together.”

Caroline shook her head. “I didn’t say that, Harry.”

“You didn’t need to!” Harry yelled. “It’s been implied in every bloody conversation we’ve had since I arrived on this kingdom’s shores. You’ve played on my insecurities and made me feel like an interloper in my adopted home. So, yes, damn you for making all of this so much harder than it needed to be.”

Harry swiped mucus from his bottom lip with the back of his hand and coughed, the sound thick and watery. 

“And morals aside, surely you must’ve known that suspicion for any ill deed against the Prince would fall upon me — as it did! I suffered for many moons, grieving and terrified. Gods, Caroline — I would’ve braced myself against the stake to prove I had nothing to do with that fire.”

“I was blinded, Harry,” Caroline hissed. “Blinded by my jealousy and hatred of the man you call husband, _and they knew that_. They used my distrust of Prince Zayn against me, led me to believe what I wanted instead of what I saw.”

Caroline reached for Harry’s hand for a final time, but he shied away, his lips curling in disgust. Caroline hiccuped out a sob and clutched at her hair, looking for once like the images of witches etched into children’s books. Wild-eyed and desperate. Harry closed his eyes against the display. 

From the darkness behind his eyelids, he heard a sudden rumble of thunder. It was the first time any burst of nature had managed to penetrate through the cave’s thick layers of stone and earth. 

Perhaps it was just Harry’s superstitions talking, but he wondered if Caroline had anything to do with the crackle of lightning, whether her anguish — faux or genuine — could manifest as nature itself.

It was several long minutes before Caroline spoke again, her voice low and compelling. Harry had to lean forward to hear. “I may be a witch and a bastard, a traitor to Prince Zayn’s throne, but I swear on my name and my maker, I never, _ever_ betrayed you, Harry. I — I love you far too much to ever hurt you like that.”

It was perhaps the first and only instance where Harry heard Caroline give voice to the emotional tethers binding them. 

There was a time where the declaration would’ve left Harry feeling buoyant. Harry wasn’t sure he had ever loved anyone before Zayn, but what he’d felt for Caroline certainly came close. She straddled the lines of protector, confidant, and lover, representing a duality of beings that he hadn’t realized he’d craved in a partner. She was his first infatuation, his first heartbreak, his first glimpse at the whims and cruelties of the world. Yet she never pretended as though their relationship was fueled by more than power and lust.

Harry had once hoped she’d confess her passion. He’d hoped they would run away together, escape the pretenses of court and live quietly somewhere. In the rich countryside bordering Riverrun, perhaps.

Harry had also thought he was a man grown at sixteen. Now, he was a husband, a father, and a Prince, but he was also enough of a man to know that he still had much learning to do. He just needed the time — and the freedom — to do so.

“No, you don’t love me, Caroline,” Harry said. “If you did, you would realize how much it would destroy me to kill the only person tethering me here.”

Caroline’s face twisted up in yet another grimace. “Harry — ”

“If you want me to trust you again, you’ll have to earn it,” Harry continued, as though he hadn’t heard Caroline’s pained interjection. “It’s not enough to sob on my bed and heal my physical wounds. Heal my spirit. Get me out of here.” 

Harry gulped, Zayn’s visage floating to the forefront of his mind. It felt like years since the last time they’d spoken or held each other. But Harry could still remember the first day they’d met and their hesitant first kisses. He remembered the heat of Zayn’s gaze and the small whimpers he bit back whenever they fucked.

Zayn was out there — Harry already knew that. He’d seen it in a dream — except Caroline and Leigh-Anne were insistent that it _wasn’t_ a dream. It was real. And if it was real, Zayn was truly out _there_ , searching for Harry and tending to their children. 

Harry couldn’t escape, couldn’t run barefoot out of the cave in a dramatic reunion heralded by drums and horns. This wasn’t a children’s tale. 

But he could make himself easier to find.

“Reunite me with my beloved,” Harry demanded.

Caroline shook her head. “It’s not as simple as that. Both the village and the castle are warded by ancient magic. You have to be invited in by someone who already knows of its whereabouts.”

“And you don’t?” Harry pressed. “Gigi Hadid isn’t with Zayn as we speak? I’m sure she knows of this castle.”

“Harry — ”

“If you harbor any love for me, you will do this,” Harry said. “You will deliver a message to Gigi, or Zayn, or — or I don’t even care who. But you will get me out of this godforsaken cave. Do you hear me?” Caroline trembled but did not speak. “ _Caroline_! Do. You. Hear. Me?”

“I’ll do it,” Caroline hissed. “You know I cannot deny you. Not — not after everything. But first I must spin pretty lies for the Pretender Princess.” 

And then Caroline vanished.

 

Another night, another dream.

Though he was afraid, Harry also knew that he was dreaming. He was unsure whether this awareness was helpful or not, this mounting of sleep and wakefulness. His whole life in the cave was full contradictions, mingled hopes and despairs. All he could do was embrace it, now that his thoughts were all that he had left. 

And so he tiptoed through a nightmare and confronted the burned husk of his husband’s castle. He climbed staircases and treaded walkways. He encountered no one. No Louis with a severed hand. No Gigi or Caroline or Perrie. Certainly no Zayn. For the first time in many moons, Harry traveled through this nightmare without encountering another soul.

Harry made his way out to the gardens. Ash fell from the sky, light like gray snow. Harry stopped and put his hands before him, palms cupped upward. Soot collected along his fingertips, mingling with the blood that covered him. That, of course, was unchanged.

All was quiet but for Harry’s labored breathing. He tried to accept his loneliness, to merge into it, but he had always been a social being. Even in his dreams, he longed for companionship.

After some time, Harry finally looked at his feet. He couldn’t remember doing so in any previous dreams. There were always other images to distract him — beasts and magic and terrors. But now Harry knew this fantasy for what it truly was, and he could devote his attention to the details. The peculiarities that might become realities.

The gore that covered him in the dreams before had never been his own. But this time, Harry was able to catch the steady drip, drip, drip, as a wound bloomed across his chest.

“I don’t understand,” Harry opened his mouth to say, but his lungs were already full of blood. He fell to his knees, still struggling to speak.

 

The next day, Leigh-Anne took Harry to Perrie’s room.

Like almost every other room Harry encountered in the cave, the space was sparsely decorated. There was a bed with a chest pushed against the foot of it and a tiny table with two chairs. The far wall had a small slat for a window and weapons propped up against it — a saber, crossbow, and longsword. Harry’s fingers curled, remembering the look of satisfaction that danced across Perrie’s face when she sliced Louis’ hand off with her steel.

Perrie looked much softer now, without her breeches and leather and blood splatter on her cheeks. She was wearing another simple black dress and her hair fell in soft sheets around her face. Once more, Harry was crushed with a sense of loathing, but this time it was not directed at Perrie. Harry loathed himself for finding himself in this position and for finding Perrie attractive in spite of it.

“Did they bathe you before you came up here?” Perrie asked as she let Harry into the room, teeth flashing in a grin.

Harry took a step back and bumped his shin into the chest. He somehow held back a hiss of pain. “Your Highness?”

“I like you best when you’re clean,” Perrie clarified. “When you smell like mineral water and lavender. Otherwise you smell like any disgusting man from that horrid brothel. Like sweat. Insecurity.” 

Her voice suddenly turned soft and contemplative. “Why do you suppose all of those men smell the same way? Is it from the shame of purchasing affection for an evening? Although I suppose there’s no shame in it, really. It is, after all, how King Yaser was able to marry you to his beloved son.”

Harry gulped and rubbed his hands over his wrists, casting his gaze downward. The bruises had healed thanks to Caroline’s interference, but the skin was still tender. 

His dream the night before had left him feeling all out of sorts, partly present and partly away. And so it felt natural to press his fingers into the sensitive flesh around his wrist. He closed his eyes against the creep of pain and reminded himself that he was still alive. There was no blood in his lungs yet.

When Harry did not rise to Perrie’s goading, she changed tactics, suddenly proclaiming, “I must confess I’m beginning to miss your hair.” She took several steps forward and stood on her tiptoes, raking her nails over Harry’s scalp. Harry’s eyes fixed on the faint freckles on her neck, and he fought down a shiver. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been touched during his captivity, but Perrie’s felt different. Wrong, unwelcome, and also pleasant. 

“But Leigh-Anne was right — she’s always right. Anyone on the road would’ve known you. The gorgeous Prince, with his long locks of hair.”

Perrie took a step back. She coughed and turned away, but Harry still caught a flash of disorientation on her face. Harry wasn’t sure whether it was reassuring to know that she felt as confused by their interactions as he did.

“Sit, Harry.”

Harry did as he was bid, sitting at the small table. Perrie followed, taking the seat across from him.

Harry wondered how frequently Perrie entertained before the loss of her parents. All he knew about her was that she’d been raised by a warrior people, but what did that even mean? Did the warrior tribes here in the Sawsan throw raucous parties? Did she ever learn to play the piano or sing songs, as Harry and Gemma had? 

If they had met under different circumstances, without the imposition of war and space and time, would they have been friends?

They regarded each other for a long, still moment. But then Perrie’s lips quirked upward and she twirled the gaudy diamond ring that sat on one of her fingers.

“The witch finally deigned to tell me the details of your conversation,” Perrie said. “She’s a feisty little wench, wouldn’t you agree?”

Harry, unsure where Perrie was going with this line of talk, remained silent.

“She’s told us all about you, of course. How the two of you were once intimate and all that it cost her. How strange, that bedding you was a punishable offense worthy of death! It seems backwards, but I suppose that’s just Holmes. A backwards little kingdom. 

“Anyway, the witch told us that she felt compelled to follow you to Jinan after the war concluded. And then how you callously discarded her once her services were no longer needed. I suppose you and Zayn are the same in that regard. Women are just toys for you pigs, quaint distractions from the power plays of court.” Perrie stopped for a moment and bit at her bottom lip. “She’d never told me that you were part of the little scheme to keep me from returning to court, though. Convenient, don’t you think, to leave something important like that out until now?”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming. Caroline had said she would spin pretty lies for the Princess, not tell her inconvenient truths. _Fuck_.

“Well?” Perrie prodded. She was smiling, but nothing in her face was friendly. “Nothing to say for yourself?”

Harry shook his head, completely at a loss. “I never wanted them to kill you.”

Perrie laughed. “Oh, I’m sure of that. You’re a simple boy. You probably ran to Swift or Tomlinson and just asked them to make big, bad Perrie go away.”

Harry hated that she was right. “It was a mistake,” Harry admitted. “Zayn never mentioned you previously. Tomlinson told me about you and I — I found your letters to the Prince. He kept them in a blue box. Our relationship was still so new and he was cagey with the details. I didn’t want to chance it by having you show up.”

It was Perrie’s turn to look shocked. After a protracted moment, she laughed, a choked, mean thing. “That bloody box. I gave it to him when we were children.”

Perrie stood and padded across the room. She knelt before her chest, heaving it open with a grunt. When she returned to the table, it was with a blue box that was a mirror of the one Harry had found hidden under Zayn’s floorboards. 

“Our fathers gave these to us when we were betrothed,” Perrie explained. “Our promise rings were hidden at the bottom. When the time came to be married, we would exchange the rings, and give ourselves to each other in the capital square. I used to dream about it — about walking into the marriage tent and seeing Zayn waiting for me.

“Our betrothal ceremony was in Urooba, at the Swift estate. It was considered neutral territory, even though Queen Trisha’s familial home is nearby. The sun was shining high in the sky and I was wearing a pretty green dress with gold trim. People had always addressed me formally, but that was the first time I _really_ felt like a Princess. 

“I hardly knew what was happening, but Zayn was such a charming little boy — so shy and learned. Very polite and well-groomed. His hands were warm and sweaty when I gripped them between my palms. I’d never met a boy like him before.” Perrie blinked, her face opening up as she chuckled to herself. “Sometimes, I think I’ll never meet a boy like him again.

“I spent a fortnight in Urooba, playing with Zayn and his sisters and cousins. And at the end, as I was leaving to come back to the Sawsan, Zayn and I made a vow to keep in touch until our wedding day. We would keep any correspondence within our treasure chests and on our wedding night, we would read the notes back to each other.

“I still don’t quite understand why the betrothal was broken,” Perrie admitted. “But when I received the raven, I thought about burning this stupid box. I wanted to burn down our whole castle, really, just to show Zayn that I was still loyal to him, to show that I could wait for him. To show him how much I cared.”

Perrie sniffled and handed the box to Harry. He ran his fingers over the painted wood and gold filigree, marveling over how beautiful and _heavy_ it was. “Did he ever write back to you?” Harry asked. “I read your notes — as many as I could bear. But he told me he never replied to yours.”

Perrie turned her head and lifted a shoulder. “Open the box and tell me what you see.” Harry looked up, sure that his distrust was etched into every line on his face. Perrie laughed. “It’s not got dragons in it. It won’t bite.”

Just like Zayn’s treasure chest, this box didn’t have a lock. Harry pushed the lid open and sat back in his chair.

Before him, in a neat, familiar hand, was evidence that Zayn, Harry’s dear and lovely husband, was a fucking liar.

Harry could feel the threatening itch of tears and made to shut the box, but Perrie made a soft noise of disapproval and placed her hands on top of Harry’s. Her skin was soft but cool. “No, no, no, my little Prince,” she said. “Read them. Hell — read them out loud.”

Harry’s lips trembled. Perrie had already inflicted so many indignities upon him, but for some reason this request felt remarkably cruel. 

Harry’s eyes drifted to the weapons propped against the wall. He closed his eyes and made himself remember the spurt of blood and Louis’ high, unending screams. What else could he do but oblige the Princess’ request?

 

_My dearest Perrie,_

_I must continue to counsel patience and understanding. Our fathers are wise and I firmly believe they continue to know what is best for us._

_Wait for me, my love. The time will soon come when you are called to the capital, when we can swear our truths before the entire realm._

_I promise you: Nothing will ever come between us unless we let it. And I refuse to let our love fall by the wayside._

_Yours in affection and triumph,_

_Zayn_

 

And then another, with a date that coincided with the hours Harry spent traveling by boat to meet his betrothed:

 

_My eternal Perrie,_

_I apologize for the long gap in our correspondence. It has been exceedingly difficult to find the time to write you. My father has secured an alliance with Holmes, and although the kingdom sings a song of peace, I have started my own song — one of sorrow._

_I am obliged to marry another._

_I promised you once that nothing would come between us, and that is still true. I still love you like I have never loved. But it seems that our kingdom’s new-found alliance must be forged in marriage._

_I do not know much, but I know that I cannot love him, this Prince from beyond the sea._

_Wait for me, just as you waited as I was forced to entertain Swift, Hadid, and all the other aspirants to the throne. Wait until I can unbind the shackles of matrimony that_

 

“You can stop,” Perrie said. Harry looked up to see a face crumpled up in the one thing he hated the most — pity. “I didn’t realize you would grab that one. I must have re-read it recently.”

Perrie plucked the treasure box and its contents from Harry’s hand and closed them. The guilt on her face almost looked genuine.

“He didn’t know you then. I’m sure things have changed — ”

“It’s fine,” Harry retorted. Absolutely nothing was fine, but Perrie couldn’t know that. “I’m sure I said worse things before we met.”

Perrie hummed noncommittally and then fell silent. 

 

Jesy knocked on the door some time later to bring them dinner. They ate in a tenuous silence, even though Harry didn’t have an appetite. Zayn and Perrie’s correspondence had robbed him of that.

Harry didn’t even know why he was so upset. Perrie was right — they didn’t know each other then. Neither boy had no way of knowing whether their marriage would be a love match or not. So it wasn’t the actual contents of the letter that perturbed him.

No, it must be the fact that Zayn lied to Harry. Why would he do it? Was it just to spare Harry’s feelings? 

And what else had Zayn lied to Harry about?

 

“Do you miss him?” Perrie asked, once she polished off the contents of her bowl. They were served yet another fatty soup, with bread that had seen fresher days and goat milk that tasted a little sour. “Do you miss your Zayn?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Yes.”

“You love him.”

It didn’t really sound like a question, but Harry still treated it as such. “Yes, of course I do. With all my heart.”

“And you’re not just saying that?” Perrie pressed. “Not because it’s easy to spin a tale? Or because it’s expected?”

Harry shook his head. “I traveled across a sea to be with him. I gave up my crown and my kingdom. Both of those — if I’m honest, those are enough reasons for me _not_ to love him. But he’s also been unbelievably kind to me. He held me when I lost my mother. He’s accepted refugees into this country because he sees them as my kinsmen. I tried to run into a burning building for him. I couldn’t. I can’t _not_ love him.”

“But you’re fond of Tomlinson, too,” Perrie said, licking her lips. “Even though you don’t want to be. The way you scream about him tells me as much. That must be so strange for you, to want to bed the man who fucked your husband.”

Harry almost choked on his own saliva. “They _never_ — ”

“Oh, don’t tell me you believe their lies,” Perrie interrupted. “You’re a ridiculous child, but I don’t believe even you are that stupid. The whole realm knows something happened. Whether it was a kiss or an affair — it doesn’t really matter. Their incest is still a blight upon this kingdom.”

Harry shook his head. He could feel himself shutting down, his breaths coming up short and frayed. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“Would you rather have it with Tomlinson?” Perrie asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Dismemberment and captivity might have finally loosened his lips. Perhaps you could even give him a little pity fuck. You could both pretend the other is Zayn.”

“Isn’t that what _you’d_ like?” Harry spat, desperation making him cruel. “That’s what all of this is about, right — how you want to bed me, because you can’t have Prince Zayn? Dinner, the touching, the probing questions into my love life. You don’t need to pass me around your soldiers to flood the mountains with my bastards. You can do that all on your own — and clearly you _want_ to.”

Perrie’s entire face lit up with glee. “Oh, Prince Kitty discovered his claws!”

Harry glowered at Perrie, feeling more and more perplexed the longer he was in her presence. “You’re mocking me.”

“Of course I am,” Perrie agreed. “All of the rumors I’ve heard about you are true. You’re pretty — yes, I’ll give you that — but you are helplessly stupid. 

“You couldn’t _not_ love the Prince? Did you forget so easily that King Yaser is the reason why you were stolen from your homeland? That the King’s men slew your father and created the unstable conditions that led to your mother’s murder? If anyone should hate the Royal Family and all that it stands for, it should be you.

“You’re absolutely pathetic, Harry,” Perrie continued. “And for that, I will always scorn you.”

“That’s fine,” Harry retorted. “I don’t need your esteem — nor do I particularly want it. My father always said there’s nothing as deplorable as a traitor.”

Perrie’s eyes flashed with rage. “I’m no traitor. In fact, I would propose that I’m the only one who seems to remember what this kingdom stands for.”

Harry looked around the room, at the Princess’ meager belongings, the swords and the treasure chest that still sat on the table beside them. “If you’re no traitor, why are we hiding in a cave like beggars? Why aren’t you marching forth with your legions of men to take Zayn on the battlefield? Where are your soldiers and your bards, the storytellers sowing the tales of imminent victory?”

Perrie stood suddenly, her chair scraping harshly against the floor. For a moment she held her body still, her fingers pressed against the table and her jaw tensed. Harry watched and waited.

And then the Princess laughed. “I’m not taking lectures in morality from the likes of you,” she sneered. “You’re a hypocrite. You talk about love, when in reality all you care about are the optics — how your relationship with Zayn looks like to the ninnies at court. You preach about honor, but you debased yourself before even stepping foot in Jinan. You are selfish, and it’s no surprise that Zayn continuously lies to you, considering that your naiveté makes it so bloody easy. You deserve to be his fool.

“But I’m not done playing with you this evening,” Perrie said, making her way over to the tiny slat in the wall. Harry wondered if she could see out to the village nestled at the foot of the mountain or the bright twinkle of stars. Now, Harry only ever saw the outside world in his dreams. “There are rumors that King Yaser’s men are just over the mountain range. Countless scores of soldiers, all come to rescue the Prince’s courtesan. The castle is hidden by ancient magic, but both Gigi and Zayn are aware of its existence. So who knows if we’ll have time for revelry tomorrow.”

Perrie turned and faced Harry once more. She leaned against the wall and adopted a low, conspiratorial tone. “I have quite the idea. What do you say that we bring Tomlinson up here?”

**Author's Note:**

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